


the way you move is like a full on rainstorm (and I'm a house of cards)

by sevenimpossiblethings



Series: You Can See It With the Lights Out [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Music, Coming Out, M/M, Pop Culture, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6317827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a rising pop star. Eames is his backup dancer. Ariadne runs his social media. Mal tries to run his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Thanks, Part I** : If there were a Grammy award for best beta, Castillon02 would win it. (I mean, if Castillon02 had been involved, Taylor Swift definitely would not have ended up riding shotgun in the front seat of the car.) I am incredibly grateful for her support and enthusiasm for this project; for calling me on my deus ex machina moves as needed; and for encouraging me as I wrote scenes I wasn’t sure I could write and as “just three more scenes” never failed to turn into “just another three more scenes.” 
> 
> **Thanks, Part II** : Thanks to everyone on tumblr who cheered me on from the start, and a special thanks to kenopsia for her unwavering faith in my ability to tackle this (I hope the broccoli turned out all right). Thanks also to M.D. for responding to my increasingly frantic texts about the word count with good-natured bemusement. When I say this fic took over my life, I mean I started dreaming about it and writing it in my sleep. How’s that for inception?
> 
>  **Playlist, of sorts** : As a pop music AU, it would seem fitting to give you all a playlist. I can’t listen to music while I write, but, if you’re interested, when it was late at night and I wanted to get myself into the right headspace for working on this, I listened to “You Are in Love” and “New Romantics.” (“I Know Places” is also pretty spot-on.) 
> 
> **An idea, a schedule** : The idea for this fic came after I attended a Big Fancy Concert in August as a pre-graduation present to myself. I never imagined that it would take me most of the year to write it. In the spirit of that, this will all be posted by the time I graduate in mid-May. Whether that makes this fic a bonus graduation present to myself or one for all of you, I leave up to you to decide. 
> 
> **Necessary suspension of disbelief** : Arthur is a pop singer. Roll with it. 
> 
> **Disclaimer** : Although a fair amount of shade is thrown at the music industry, this fic should not be taken as a guide for how I personally think celebrities should conduct themselves. On that note, while I have attempted to be accurate in my industry references, I have at times altered details, simplified matters, or generally engaged in authorial hand-waving for narrative ease. Finally, other than the accounts of recognizable celebrities and entities, I made up all social media usernames/handles/etc., and any resemblance to actual people's existing accounts is unintentional.

Arthur has a deal with his mom. He can take a gap year after graduating from high school and focus on music—on writing more songs, on updating his YouTube channel more frequently, on trying to book gigs and find an agent and maybe land a record deal (ha). During this time, his mom will continue to house and feed him and give him gas money. If, by the summer after graduation, he hasn’t made significant progress toward starting a viable career (whatever that is), he has to go to college that fall, as planned. 

Arthur knows his mom adores him. He knows she _believes_ in him. She was the one, after all, who paid for piano lessons for all those years. She’s his mom; of course she thinks he’s a star, of course she thinks he deserves the world. Still, Arthur’s mom is a nurse, the daughter of a middle school teacher and a steelworker. They are perfectly ordinary, and perfectly ordinary people do not become pop stars. 

  


Six months after receiving his high school diploma, Arthur wins _The Voice_. 

  


Backstage is crazy. 

His mom is there, along with Ariadne. They’re both crying. 

“You won, you won!” Ariadne shrieks. 

“I’m so proud of you,” his mom says, pulling him in for a hug. 

“Oh my god,” Arthur keeps repeating. “I won?” 

“You won,” they both say.

“Am I dreaming?” he asks. 

Ariadne pinches him, hard. 

“Ow,” he says. 

“Awake?” she prompts.

“Apparently,” he says. Then: “Oh my god, I _won_.” 

As his mom and Ariadne and the show’s producers and several thousand people on the Internet have been telling him over the past month, Arthur didn’t _need_ to win. He had a meeting two days earlier with the record company, where he’d been told that he would get a deal regardless of the final results. (But if he wanted the best terms… well, it was suggested to him that a win wouldn’t hurt.) 

Arthur has been compared to Will Young about a hundred times already, and he hasn’t even released an original single yet. (The covers he recorded for the show, on the other hand, are doing quite nicely on iTunes. Not that Arthur is tracking the numbers obsessively, or anything.) 

Still, it’s nice to have won.

Really nice, because it’s proof that for one weird, staged and contrived and artificial moment, Arthur was the _best_. 

Suddenly there’s a camera in his face, of course, and a producer. 

“Arthur,” says the producer, “introduce us!” 

“Oh, hi,” says Arthur, because he’s still really awkward on camera, despite having spent the last few months of his life competing on a reality singing show. “This is my mom. This is my best friend, Ariadne.” They wave. 

“So, Arthur,” says the producer. “What’s next?”

“Uh,” says Arthur. “I’m pretty sure that you guys tell me?” 

The producer laughs and doesn’t say anything. 

The camera is still trained on his face. 

“Well, there’s the tour this summer, but I guess that’s not for a while yet,” says Arthur. “And, um, I guess I have a record deal. So, I’ll be working on that, presumably.” 

“Presumably,” says the producer, as if she can’t believe her show has given $100,000 and a record deal to someone quite this stupid. 

($100,000. Holy _shit_.) 

“Congratulations, Arthur,” says the producer, and waves the cameraperson away. “Now, don’t forget to share this moment with the adoring public!” 

Arthur blinks at her.

“She means Twitter,” says Ariadne helpfully, who was the one to badger him about setting up a Twitter account a few years ago, when he’d first started putting up videos on YouTube. He doesn’t use Twitter all that much—didn’t, at least, before _The Voice_ , before the producers kept reminding him of the importance of interacting with the voters. 

The producer beams. “Five minutes before the cars leave for the after-party, okay?” 

“Give it here,” says Ariadne, holding out her hand. 

Arthur hands over his phone. 

“Selfie!” she proclaims, and tugs Arthur’s mom closer so they can all fit in the frame. She takes a few pictures and passes the phone back to Arthur. 

“Tweet,” she commands.

(Life is so simple when Ariadne reduces it to one-word instructions, Arthur thinks. Ariadne should be in charge of everything.) 

Arthur opens his Twitter app. 

**@anotherarthur:** I won?! pic.twitter

He posts it and shows it to Ariadne. 

“Thank the good people,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

**@anotherarthur** :Thank you for all of your support over the past few months! Thank you thank you thank you!

Arthur frowns at his phone.

Half his tweets these days don’t even _sound_ like him.

Not that he isn’t grateful. Not that he doesn’t know exactly how much he owes the viewers ($100,000 and a record deal, among other things.) But the show-mandated tweets always come out so generic, even though he insists on writing them himself. 

“Party,” Ariadne reminds him. “You won.”

“I won,” says Arthur, and grins. 

  


If it were a different kind of reality show, Arthur would have been voted off the island right away. 

Arthur doesn’t do alliances, and he doesn’t do ‘likeability.’ 

Music is the only thing that matters. (Except for his mom and Ariadne.) 

If that means that he comes across as too cold, too ambitious, too serious—well, fuck you. The viewers picked him in a fucking landslide. 

It’s possible, Arthur knows, that his win was completely dependent upon the tumblrs devoted to his fashion sense. Or Buzzfeed’s definitive scale of his outfits, on a scale of “A+, 10/10, would fuck and also bring home to meet the family” to “SDFLKSDJFSDLFKJSLDKF,” the latter of which was also supplemented by several gifs of people screaming and swooning. 

Arthur hopes at least some of the votes were based on his voice, his dedication, his _focus_. 

But either way, the point is this: Arthur gets the job done. 

Arthur wins. 

  


For the record—pun intended—most of the $100,000 isn’t actually cash money Arthur can spend on new suits or paying off his mom’s mortgage. It’s an advance to be used to pay for the production of the album. 

When Arthur gets the first draft of the contract, he, his mom, and Ariadne re-watch _Artifact_. Arthur thinks about the fact that the contract will be enforceable anywhere in the world _and_ solar system. Then they start looking for a lawyer. 

  


Immediately after New Year’s, Mal—who is part of his new management team—has him meet with his A&R rep, who in turn has him meet with several well-established songwriters, and before Arthur knows it, he’s selected two songs from the array presented to him. Two songs that will be part of his _debut album,_ what is his _life_. 

So while Ariadne is texting him about her J-term classes and the snowstorm that shuts down NYU for a week, he’s in the studio, recording. The songs only represent a fraction of the album, but there’s no time to waste. The record company wants to release the album mid-autumn, and they have to work around the pesky summer tour schedule that is part of Arthur’s original contract for _The Voice_. 

Arthur also didn’t realize how many meetings would be required in order to facilitate one’s ascent into pop stardom. There are general PR meetings, of course, but there are also PR sub-meetings on his social media presence and basic media training and even his _haircut_ , which apparently is no longer under his exclusive control. There are also plenty of joint task force meetings between his label, his management team, and the PR team, the relationship between which is so complicated Arthur had to make himself a chart. Then there are the voice lessons, which Arthur actually enjoys, because studying and practicing is something he’s good at, unlike, according to Mal, every other part of being on the cusp of being _someone_. And, naturally, there is the constant stream of industry functions, where Arthur is supposed to ‘network’ so that the gatekeepers accept him once he actually manages to record an album. (Which he isn’t doing as long as he’s spending his time meeting with people who don’t really want to talk to an eighteen-year-old kid who hadn’t even managed to land a development contract in his early teens.) 

  


Arthur’s contract for _The Voice_ required that he stop posting music to his YouTube channel, and the new contract—the official, Arthur-is-going-to-become-a-real-deal contract—replicates this clause. 

It’s funny, really, that Arthur committed to posting three times a week during his music gap year, and then _The Voice_ happened and he went back to once a week, and none of those were even music-based—just him, rambling about whatever he wasn’t prohibited to discuss about the show, or how weird it was to not be in college like everybody else. 

Arthur thinks he’s going to have to shut down his channel eventually, or at least find a new general subject to talk about. He asks people to put suggestions in the comments. 

He knows that _The Voice_ is the only reason his subscriptions have skyrocketed over the past few months, but he doesn’t want to abandon the couple hundred people who listened to him even when he was just doing Taylor Swift and Sara Bareilles covers at Ariadne’s behest. 

After all, his album could turn out to be a total flop. 

  


Even though it’s been nearly two months since the finale, Ariadne keeps sending him links to the best gifsets of his performances, not to mention what surely must be every single post that flails about his ass. (So Arthur knows how to dress for his body. Sue him.) 

Ariadne is certain that he’s missed all of this Internet content while he was busy, you know, winning a reality show and then dealing with the fallout (i.e. beginning to record an album) and insists that it’s her job to remedy the situation. She also insists that the intense fight over which color suit he looks best in is _vital_ information. In short, she finds this all very, very funny.

It’s slightly less funny when _People_ and _Hollywood Reporter_ and all the rest of the gossip magazines try to speculate on what he looks for in a woman and start putting together lists of (female) models they think would look nice standing next to Arthur on a red carpet. (When Arthur tries to bring this up with Mal—who he knows can make stories and entire lines of inquiry disappear with a single phone call—she ignores him.)

Of course, the articles would only be a tiny bit less disconcerting if they picked out male models—or at least threw a few into the mix, for variety’s sake—but sometimes that tiny little bit less matters. 

Arthur hasn’t come out yet, officially, to the public. 

He didn’t want his sexuality to matter. He wanted to win. 

But now he has won (he _won_ ), and during every meeting, he looks over at Mal—who knows, just like everybody else at the record company, at his management company, at the PR company—and wonders, _Is it time yet?_ Contracted closeting has become a major faux pas, so at least that’s not technically part of his image clause, but the lack of an explicit clause in the contracts doesn’t mean the PR machine doesn’t want to orchestrate the whole thing down to a t. (Apparently nobody really thought through the early Will Young comparisons. Come on, people.) 

Perhaps as they planned, he’s too busy going to meetings and the studio to give much thought to how he’s going to tell his brand-new fans that he’s gay. 

  


They fly him out to New York for a week or so, to do interviews and meet with non-L.A. based songwriters and producers and other kinds of music people his A&R rep thinks might work on his album. 

( _His_ album. Nope, still not used to it.) 

Arthur spends the majority of his free time—of which there isn’t much—frantically writing, calling up Ariadne at odd times to sing her a verse or try out a new bridge in one of the songs he wrote before _The Voice_. He keeps getting kicked out of their hotel lobby for trying to work out melodies on the piano at two in the morning. 

When Mal hears about this mid-week, she calls him. 

“Nobody actually expects you to write,” she says. 

“I expect me to write,” says Arthur. 

“You’re an eighteen-year-old who just won a reality show,” says Mal. 

“Exactly,” says Arthur. “So I need to write, so I can prove to people that I’m not completely manufactured.” 

“You need to sell records,” Mal corrects. 

“I’m writing,” says Arthur. “I’m happy to work with the songwriters you’ve picked out, but I’m writing.” 

There is nothing in his contract that says he can’t substantially contribute to the music, and Arthur has no intention of giving in this early. Artistic integrity aside, there’s a financial incentive as well: songwriters get a cut of each song sold, and since the label gets to recoup a variety of production and promotion costs from Arthur’s shares of the sales, racking up writing credits is a good way to (hopefully) ensure that debt from this album won’t be carried over to the next, which can happen when a record isn’t a big enough hit. 

“We can discuss this more once you’ve sat down with the other writers,” Mal concedes at last. 

“Fine,” says Arthur. 

“One more thing,” says Mal. “Try not to look at the interviewers like they’re stupid, all right? Your aloof, don’t-touch-my-suit persona works fairly well, but you cannot be condescending.” 

“I,” Arthur starts, because his _persona_? “They ask stupid questions.”

“Get used to it,” says Mal. 

“Right,” says Arthur glumly. 

“Don’t forget to tweet!” Mal says, and hangs up. 

  


**@anotherarthur** :Look who I found in New York! @ariadneisamaze pic.twitter

  


Arthur is nervous about his writing sessions, mostly because he’s afraid he’s going to walk in and be told that he’s been going about songwriting all wrong and he has no idea what he’s doing and he’s clearly a fraud and all of his songs sound like they were written by a twelve-year-old and how did he even win the stupid show in the first place? 

In a surprising turn of events, reality turns out to be so much better than his nightmares. 

The writers that A&R have found are encouraging and fun to be around and even though Arthur still feels, most days, like a kid allowed to stay up past his bedtime (and, wow, these songwriting sessions definitely run past his bedtime), nobody looks at him like he doesn’t deserve to be there. In the end, there are only two songs that he won’t be given songwriting credit for—the two songs he recorded pre-New York trip—and there are even a handful that are almost all his own work. 

(Arthur hopes that, someday, an interviewer will ask him where he wrote those songs. _At 2 a.m. in a hotel lobby in New York_ , he’ll reply, _just before the concierge got fed up with me working out melodies on his out-of-tune piano_.) 

  


Then he’s back in the studio. Recording. _His album._

The hours are long, and he’s more exhausted than he was even at the height of _The Voice_ , but it’s a good kind of exhaustion. Only a handful of people in the world get to do what he’s doing, and he’s going to give it everything he’s got, even if that means running on four hours of sleep for a while. He tries not to feel discouraged by the fact that he’ll record more songs than will make it onto the album. 

Really, he’s amused by how unglamorous the recording process actually is. He spends several hours singing innumerable versions of “oh” and “yeah” that will be layered with the main vocals. There’s even a particularly exuberant half-hour in which he and the executive producer stomp on a raised wooden platform in a dozen different pairs of shoes, searching for the right sound. 

  


Arthur turns nineteen in March. 

Mal wants to throw him a party. 

“I don’t have any friends in L.A.,” Arthur objects, which is true: Ariadne is irrefutably in New York. 

“You can make friends at your party,” says Mal, not looking away from her phone.

“But,” says Arthur, “who would _come_ to this party?” 

“Music people,” says Mal. “Do we need to have the networking talk again?”

“No,” says Arthur. He’s not sulking about it, he’s not, he knows he needs the insiders on—well, on his side, but, “It’s just, it’s my birthday.”

“Yes, so we have a ready-made excuse to throw you another party,” says Mal. 

“I thought I could just… go out to dinner with my mom,” says Arthur. 

Mal nods thoughtfully. “How about lunch? Or dinner the night before?” 

“Shouldn’t I do what I want to do, because it’s _my_ birthday?” Arthur ventures. 

“No,” says Mal. “This isn’t about your birthday; it’s about your career.” 

Right. Arthur straightens. 

“Okay,” he says. “Throw me a party.” 

“Try to look like you’re having fun for the cameras, yes?” Mal reminds him. 

Arthur throws her his most dazzling smile. 

  


Arthur permits himself to send no more than five texts to Ariadne over the course of the party. He tries to make small talk with everybody and not sound too obviously like he’s _networking_ even though, well, duh. He manages to spend some time with a few of the songwriters and producers he’s working with, which is actually fun, even though he has to remind himself to not talk about the album. Every time he wants to roll his eyes at someone’s ostentatious watch or pretentious name-dropping, he reminds himself that he’s on the clock. This is his job now, and he’s damn well going to be good at it. 

  


_The Voice_ crowns another winner, and Arthur smugly notes that the press for Drew isn’t nearly as good as Arthur’s was—as Arthur’s still is. Drew’s more country, though, so Arthur supposes they appeal to different demographics. 

Either way, no sooner has he finished recording the album ( _what_ ) than _The Voice_ tour rehearsals start. It’s not a fancy show, but they still need to work out who does the harmonies and what songs they introduce with anecdotes and all the rest. Arthur spends as much time as possible with the producers, designers, and other crewmembers. Next year, he’ll have his own tour, and he wants to be able to see the bigger picture; he’s determined to be more than just a pretty face. 

Between tour rehearsals, there’s still the album art to shoot, not to mention the new promotional shots for iTunes and the rest. They won’t decide on his tour merch until after he’s back from this summer’s _The Voice_ tour, but since the album cover is likely to be featured on a t-shirt (at the very least), they’re not exactly ignoring the fact that what they shoot now will eventually make its way into part of something far more profitable than the album itself.

It’s a bit of a whiplash, frankly, going from discussing his album one night to rehearsing completely different songs the next morning, but suddenly it’s late June and he has to set aside his album more or less entirely, because he’s _on the road_ and if Arthur thought that backstage the night of the finale was crazy, tour is absolutely insane. 

Six weeks of shows, with never more than two days between. 

It is incredible and thrilling and exhilarating and exhausting and Arthur is so, so lucky. 

  


**@anotherarthur** :Chicago, you were amazing. SOMEBODY PINCH ME.

 **@ariadneisamaze** :Pinch. YOU WON. GO TO BED. 

**@singsong123** : @anotherarthur omg is @ariadneisamaze your girlfriend?? 

**@anotherarthur** : @singsong123 No, but she is my best friend! 

**@ariadneisamaze** : @anotherathur @singsong123 Since we were five. So he can’t drop me now that he’s famous. I know too much. 

**@anotherarthur** : @ariadneisamaze You can’t drop ME now that I’m not there to watch OITNB with you

 **@ariadneisamaze** : @anotherarthur I guess I’ll consider keeping you. As long as you keep thanking me during every show. 

**@jessica92** : @anotherathur and @ariadneisamaze are so adorable. I SHIP IT.

  


When he finishes with tour in mid-August, management insists that he move into his own apartment in L.A. instead of commuting from his mom’s house, because rising pop stars shouldn’t live with their mothers. The apartment is nice, Arthur supposes, but he still goes home most weekends. He missed his mom during tour, and she’s a better cook. 

  


**@anotherarthur** : Wanted you all to hear it from me: the first single from my album is out TOMORROW. #Gravity 

  


**@anotherarthur** Holy shit. #4 on iTunes!!! You are the BEST. #Gravity 

**@anotherarthur** :Whoops, not supposed to swear & can’t edit tweets. You are still the best. #Gravity 

**@anotherarthur** :Somebody tell me how to insert music emojis. #Gravity 

**@ariadneisamaze** :@anotherarthur oh my god you loser. I have a 6 a.m. flight tomorrow, why am I helping you with emojis?! 

**@anotherarthur** :@ariadneisamaze Because I’m capable of writing bestselling singles but have no idea how to use twitter?? 

**@ariadneisamaze** :@anotherarthur Point. 

**@sickbeat89** : Guys what is the official ship name for @anotherarthur x @ariadneisamaze? Made for each other. 

**@bandg33k** : @sickbeat89 They’re just friends, stop turning everything into a ship. 

**@sickbeat89** : @bandg33k don’t hate. Also, they all say “just friends.” Obvs those two are more. 

**@sheroe4evr** :@sickbeat89 “more” and “just” perpetuate the idea that friendship isn’t good in and of itself 

**@sickbeat89** : @sheroe4evr oh my god I just wanted to know their ship name ok?? 

  


Arthur takes his mom out for dinner the next night. The restaurant isn’t anything fancy, just this Thai-French fusion place they’ve loved for ages. They mostly don’t talk about the single and the upcoming album release—Arthur filled her in on the latest meeting on the car ride there—but every once in a while, in the middle of a conversation about Ariadne’s new dorm room or the love affair between their neighbors’ cats, his mom says, “I’m so proud of you, you know? I’m so proud of you.” 

They buy slices of cake to take home, and later, sitting in the living room of what is technically his _old_ home, Arthur would be hard-pressed to think of a more perfect day. 

  


**@anotherarthur** : Heard my song on the radio for the first time! No big deal.

 **@ariadneisamaze** : @anotherarthur Did you crash your car?

 **@anotherarthur** : @ariadneisamaze Luckily, I was at a stoplight.

 **@ariadneisamaze** : @anotherarthur I can’t believe I missed that. Like I’ve missed my baby’s first steps.

 **@anotherarthur** : @ariadneisamaze My mother might dispute that analogy. 

**@ariadneisamaze** : @anotherarthur Lies, your mom loves me

 **@anotherarthur** : @ariadneisamaze It’s your own fault for ditching me for NYU.

 **@ariadneisamaze** : @anotherarthur Not all of us can have hit radio singles

 **@anotherarthur** : @ariadneisamaze Just the one.

 **@ariadneisamaze** : @anotherarthur I have faith in you

  


September and October feel like a constant stream of promo interviews. 

Surprisingly, though, he’s never asked whether he has a girlfriend, or what he looks for in a girlfriend, or anything about love and relationships. 

Arthur has spent hours on YouTube, researching celebrities’ (closeted or not) ways of sidestepping such questions when they don’t want to answer, but he doesn’t have to use any of their strategies once. 

When he asks Mal about this, she says, “I thought you wanted to be all about the music. Are you telling me you want them to ask you inane relationship questions?” 

“No, of course not, I’m just—” Arthur stumbles. 

“It’s blacklisted,” Mal interrupts. 

“What?” 

“When someone schedules an interview with you, we send them a list of blacklisted topics, along with any questions we really do want them to ask. Standard procedure. Any relationship talk is blacklisted for you. If anybody kicks up a fuss, it’s because you’re a stuck-up newbie who considers himself above celebrity culture,” Mal says.

Arthur winces. “But you’re really doing it because I’m not out yet.” He hesitates. “You know we have to do it before the album drops, right? There are four songs that explicitly use ‘he’ to describe the love interest. They’re going to find out.” 

Mal looks at him impassively. “We can continue discussing this later. You’ve got a meeting with your stylist, and I’m told her latest selection of suit options for you is divine.” 

It’s not that Arthur is upset about not having to get around awkward interview questions. It’s not that he isn’t grateful for the chance to be introduced to the wider public for his music, not for his taste in partners (although, really, how long are they going to wait?). 

But Arthur didn’t even realize there was a blacklist. Shouldn’t Mal have run that by him first, before screening his interview topics like that? 

  


Of course, eventually, there was bound to be an unprepared interviewer who didn’t get the memo. 

“So, Arthur,” says the latest interviewer, waggling his eyebrows. “Tell me. Is your friend Ariadne really just a friend?” 

Arthur is so accustomed to receiving this question on Twitter that it doesn’t even register as odd. 

He sighs, annoyed, because, _really_? He’s been extremely clear on his relationship with Ariadne from the beginning. It isn’t like he’s been playing coy. And isn’t that how celebrities get into relationship speculation messes, anyway—because they refuse to confirm or deny rumors? 

Behind the camera, Mal glares at him. _Smile, you’re live_ , the glare says. 

“Ari is my best friend, has been for a long time, and I’m glad that we’re still so close. I’m very thankful to have her in my life,” says Arthur firmly. “She is not my girlfriend.” 

“All right, then,” says the interviewer. “Perhaps there’s another lucky lady you’ve been keeping quiet?” 

It finally hits him: this is it. This is the question they’re not supposed to ask, and the question he’s not supposed to answer. 

Arthur looks at Mal again. 

Since May, they’ve had three meetings about how he’s going to come out, each resulting in a list of options. He could give an interview—go on Ellen, maybe, or one of the late-night shows. Or he could go print, do _Attitude_ or _Out_. He could be spotted leaving a gay nightclub. He could make some kind of supportive tweet about gay rights and use “we.” He could finally answer one of the thousands of tweets that asked him about his ideal woman with something along the lines of “Ideal man, you mean.” 

There are several dozen options and none of them have been given the go-ahead and it’s getting so _ridiculous._ There is literally no one in the music industry who doesn’t know at this point, but somehow the media hasn’t even bothered to put him in a glass closet. He’s a singing fashionista; how much more stereotypical does he have to be before they decide to stop wearing their compulsory heterosexuality glasses? 

_Fuck it_ , Arthur thinks. 

“You’re asking the wrong question,” he says, as sweetly as possible.

“I’m sorry?” says the interviewer. 

“You keep asking about a girlfriend. You’re asking the wrong question,” Arthur repeats. He keeps his eyes focused on the interviewer; if Mal wants to stop him, she can demand to have the camera turned off. 

“Oh,” says the interviewer, dumbly. “Oh! Um, boyfriend! Boyfriend? Wow, you’ve been holding out on us!” 

“I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment,” says Arthur, and hopes that the interviewer will take this as his cue to move onto another line of questioning. For example, his upcoming album. 

No such luck.

“Wow, Arthur, this is amazing, what a bold statement! Why come out now?” the interviewer asks, eyes bulging. 

_Because before I was merely bored by the straight narrative, but now I’m mildly irritated_ , Arthur does not say. _Because you were dumb enough to ask the question._

“My friends, my family, they all know that I’m gay. My management and my label know I’m gay. And everyone on _The Voice_ knew I was gay. I just didn’t want to be labeled as ‘the gay one’ on the show, and I’ve been pretty busy, you know, not really time to date, so it hasn’t come up,” says Arthur. He’s smart enough not to mention the stupid ‘Arthur is queer whatever shall we do’ meetings. 

“Right, right,” says the interviewer, very quickly. “Wow, so, do you, uh, want to talk about, what it’s like?” 

“Being gay?” Arthur raises an eyebrow. 

“Yes!” 

“Actually,” says Arthur. “I’d really like to talk about my music.” 

  


The gifset of the interview goes viral. 

  


Arthur refuses to answer pap questions about his SHOCKING (according to the headlines) gayness, but he spends a lot of time on Twitter over the next few days. Not to read through the usual nasty stuff, but to reply to as many of the supportive comments as he can. He answers fans’ questions about when he consciously realized he was gay (age twelve, chess club) and if his family is supportive (very) and what advice he has for young LGBTQIAP+ kids (this takes up several tweets, mostly because he worries about saying the wrong thing and hopes that if _one_ of the tweets says something that is right-enough, it’ll be okay). 

He wants people to see that he doesn’t mind talking about his sexuality, or his experiences with homophobia, or what it was like to kind of be in the closet for a year (not to the people who really mattered, but still). It’s just that Arthur prefers to have these conversations with the fans who tell him how much it means to them that he’s out, rather than with journalists whose articles, more likely than not, will end up disrespecting the very communities Arthur is trying to support. 

In the end, of course, it doesn’t matter. The journalists take his tweets out of context and stick them into whatever articles their editors have told them to write, and someone—he suspects Mal—authorizes a series of quotes from “unnamed sources close to Arthur,” even though there are precisely two people in the world who could accurately be called “close” to him, and his mom and Ariadne aren’t likely to call up TMZ. 

Arthur tries to focus on the music, on the live arrangements he’ll perform for promo spots once the album is released, on calling his mom at least every other day. 

The end of October comes very, very quickly. 

  


**@anotherarthur** : #WithinADream comes out tomorrow. Pinch me. 

@ **ariadneisamaze** : My best friend’s debut album comes out in FIVE HOURS. Be prepared to do nothing but listen to it on repeat. #WithinADream

 **@anotherarthur** :#WithinADream is here! Definitely captures my state of mind right now… 

  


The album debuts at #3 on the iTunes charts.  
Arthur is nineteen and a half, and it’s like the whole damn world is his for the taking. 

  


Review: Within a Dream  
4/5 stars

 _Looking at the art for this album, you might be fooled into thinking that Arthur Cohen, 19, is nothing more than a pretty face—albeit a_ very _pretty one who knows how to wear a suit._

 _Fifteen seconds of the first track of “Within a Dream,” Cohen’s debut album following his_ The Voice _win last December, is enough to convince you that there’s substance beneath this delicious surface._

_Of the twelve tracks on the album, ten are co-written by Cohen (“Station by the Sea” and “Containment” are the two exceptions). While they are rougher than the professionally-penned tracks, as is to be expected from such a new artist, there is a raw intellect in each that reminds the listener that this is a boy who was valedictorian of his high school class. (Cohen has opted not to attend college this year, although he hasn’t ruled out the possibility of returning to formal education in the future.)_

_The sheer cleverness of the lyrics is most apparent in “Inception,” “Labyrinth,” and “Gravity,” the latter of which was also Cohen’s first original single (now #8 on Billboard Hot 100). The album also includes a string of playful tracks—“Worth a Shot,” “Don’t Think,” and “Merry Chase”—any one of which could become a fun radio hit down the line._

_Cohen shows a more reflective and mature sound in the album’s later tracks, with ballads “Point Me,” “Faking It,” and “Can’t Stay.” Rounding out the album is “Elephant in the Room,” which at this point is a bit of a misnomer, given the now-infamous coming out interview Cohen gave last month._

_Overall, it’s a solid album, and, with a little more time and coaching, Cohen is poised to become a great solo artist. The teen insists he feels like he’s living “within a dream,” but his reality looks very bright._

  


**@anotherarthur** : Notice anything new about my profile? 

**@anotheraruthur** : Apparently I’m official. 

**@ariadneisamaze** : @anotherarthur That’s it, you’ve crossed over. From here on out, I cannot follow.

 **@anotherarthur** : @ariadneisamaze Actually, following is exactly what you can do :P

 **@lizzylou** : I want to say @anotherarthur and @ariadneisamaze are my brotp, except?? I friend-ship them

  


HOLLYWOOD REPORTER  
Not just any other Arthur 

_Despite his man-of-the-people Twitter handle, Arthur Cohen (@anotherarthur) is taking the music world by storm. Less than a year after being crowned the uncontested winner of_ The Voice _, Arthur has released an album straight out of our dreams. (Well, maybe not_ straight _out. Sorry, ladies!) We haven’t been this excited about an American reality show winner since Carrie Underwood won_ American Idol _all the way back in 2005. While we personally can’t wait to see Arthur crooning “Can’t Stay” in front of thousands of adoring fans, tell us your favorite track from his new album in the comments!_

  


The first time it happens, Arthur is waiting in line at Starbucks. 

That is, he’s been recognized in public before—between _The Voice_ and the pre-release album promo, he hasn’t exactly been a hermit—but this is the first time since his album’s been released. Since people have been able to listen to what all that build-up and promo was _for_. 

There are still three people ahead of him in line, and two girls who look about Arthur’s age are staring at him from a nearby table, whispering eagerly to each other. 

Arthur still hasn’t decided on his preferred course of action in situations like these. On the one hand, he could pretend to be smooth and friendly, and acknowledge the fans so he can stop pretending that he doesn’t notice them discussing him, which has the added benefit of sparing them from the awkwardness of having to make the first move. On the other, he could spare them the equal embarrassment of being caught out, order his drink like a normal person, and wait to see if they approach him on the way out. 

He wants to make an opportunity for them to introduce themselves, partially because he really does like meeting fans (and how insane is that? He has _fans_ ), partially because he hates—hates—when people “inconspicuously” take his picture without asking. He’s not a fucking zoo animal, and he would much prefer that people interrupt his day and ask for a picture rather than snap a candid. 

Arthur places his order, and as he waits for his drink to be called, the girls cross the room and approach him, blushing.

“Hi,” one of them says. She’s shorter than her friend, with dark hair and some sort of anime t-shirt Arthur doesn’t understand. “We’re sorry to bother you, but like… we’re really big fans? And we were wondering if we could take a picture with you?” 

“We loved your album,” the other adds quickly. “‘Elephant in the Room,’ is like, our song.” 

Arthur quirks a smile at that. “That’s always good to hear! That song means a lot to me, and I’m happy to take a picture with you.” 

The girls share excited glances, and there’s some phone fumbling until they determine that Arthur is terrible at taking selfies and somebody else should hold the phone. 

“Thank you _so much_ ,” says the dark-haired girl, once an adequate picture has been taken. “This just completely made my year. Your album is the soundtrack to my _life_.” 

“You’re really amazing,” the other gushes, before Arthur can reply. “And, um.” She glances at her companion. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could be honest about who you were, and I hope that, like, it hasn’t been too bad for you. Coming out, I mean.” 

“Fans like you make it worth it,” Arthur tells her, as one of the employees calls out his order. “That’s me. Thanks for saying hi—have a great rest of your day.” 

“Thank _you_ ,” says the dark-haired one. The other nods quickly, before the dark-haired girl grabs her hand and tugs them both back across the store. 

Arthur steps up to the counter to collect his coffee. 

Conscious of the girls watching his exit, he does not skip on his way out the door. 

He has _fans_. He has people—people who have never met him, who know they may never meet him—who love his music, in some way love him. People who turn up the volume of the radio when ‘Gravity’ comes on. People who listen to ‘Point Me’ when they’re feeling down. People who play ‘Elephant in the Room’ on repeat when the homophobia in their world gets to be too much. 

All these people, who Arthur will never meet—who have no particular reason to care about Arthur—listening to something he worked so hard to put together, something into which he poured every ounce of his being and then some. All these people for whom these songs will take on new lives, become meaningful in ways Arthur could not have imagined. 

It’s almost too much—but, of course, this is what he wanted. This was the goal. 

He knows there are days, and will be more days, when he doesn’t want to be recognized in public. When he wants to get his coffee or mail his package or pick up his groceries like he could a year ago and get the fuck away from strangers. 

But there’s still something thrilling about being able to make someone’s day, in a real, concrete fashion. It’s nice to put a face, even just one, to the numbers that he and Mal painstakingly review. It’s good to have a reminder that this isn’t just about analyzing market saturation. That for everyone outside of the industry—for everyone who enables the industry to exist and profit at all—it’s still about the music.

  


There are non-stop meetings over the next weeks as they hash out tour details. Even though the tour schedule had been released a week after the album, nothing beyond the dates and venues had been decided. 

Suddenly, there’s actually a show to design. 

“We’re thinking backup dancers,” says Mal. 

“Uh,” says Arthur, who has kind of been envisioning himself with, like, a piano. 

“There aren’t many male artists out there these days who are dancing, or even have backup dancers,” says Mal. 

“You mean, One Direction didn’t dance,” Arthur interjects. 

Mal waves a hand. “This will increase the production value of your shows and indicate that you’re a new, serious force.” 

“I don’t know how to dance,” Arthur says.

Mal waves this aside as well. “We’ve got choreographers. You’ll learn.” 

“Okay,” says Arthur. He’s not completely uncoordinated; he did taekwondo for five years, after all. 

“So we’ll hold auditions for your backup dancers in the next couple of weeks, get the choreographers started… You’ve only got a few months before tour starts, so this all has to happen fast,” says Mal. “Did you look over the latest set list?”

Because Arthur has only released one album, he doesn’t have enough songs to fill an entire show. To fill up the extra time, he’s sprinkling in some of the covers he did during _The Voice_ , along with a few others. 

“I like it,” says Arthur. 

“And we’ll keep one or two slots open every concert for whatever new thing comes up, if there’s an artist you can bring on as a guest that night, that sort of thing,” Mal continues. 

“Right,” says Arthur. 

Mal glances at her watch. “Okay, you’ve got to prep for interviews now. Get out of here.” 

Arthur goes. 

  


There is an almost absurd amount of promo, which apparently doesn’t end even after an album’s release. There are interviews nearly every day, appearances on every late night show and half the morning and daytime ones as well. (Ellen is charming. Arthur hopes he has a chance to go back one day.) Luckily, Arthur has plenty of experience performing on television. Still, he is awed and a little worried about the amount of resources the label is pouring into his career. 

James Corden is fun—he’s basically a life-sized teddy bear with a surprisingly good voice—and filming Carpool Karaoke is a blast. Even so, he thinks Jimmy Fallon is his favorite: According to the entire Internet, he absolutely kills Nicki Minaj’s ‘Superbass,’ and Mal likes his _fake_ performance of Stromae’s ‘Formidable’ so much she’s considering adding it to the tour set list. 

(“You speak French, mon chéri, there is literally nothing sexier to American ears,” she told him. “Except possibly for a posh British accent. You’re all terribly snobbish that way.”) 

(Arthur almost gets into an argument with a fan on Twitter about whether or not Stromae is French—he’s _not_ , you nitwit—but luckily Ariadne is home on break and confiscates his phone.) 

  


_Attitude_ calls Mal; they want him on the cover. 

Arthur agrees at once, and they schedule the interview and photoshoot for the next week. 

It’s his favorite print interview yet. 

He wishes, just for a minute, that he’d arranged for _this_ interview to be his coming out interview, rather than a throwaway promo spot with a journalist he didn’t care for. But he was so sick of waiting… 

Arthur pins the cover to the corkboard in his room. It’s not so much narcissism as a reminder: he’ll do better next time


	2. Chapter 2

During the second week of January, tour rehearsals are set to begin. Arthur met his tour manager, Dom Cobb, the week before, but he still hasn’t met the other musicians or the backup dancers. 

God, what if they hate him? 

They’re meeting in one of the conference rooms on the sixth floor of management’s endless offices, so the show designers and choreographers can walk the whole team through the “feel” and “arc” of the show, before they move to a rehearsal stage. 

Arthur is not actually in the conference room yet. He’s still standing in the lobby, eyeing the elevator call button. 

He wonders if he will ever become used to this being his life—if this will truly become his life, instead of some weird blip on his resume. 

A radio single, an album, okay. That was just sound. That was sitting in a recording studio and then watching the numbers come in. 

But a tour? A tour for _him_ , not as part of the group? A tour with people who are just there for him and his songs? 

_This is clearly a dream_ , Arthur tells himself. He still hasn’t pressed the up button. 

Everyone is going to hate him. Who, besides Ariadne and his mom, could actually put up with working with him for hours and hours and hours almost every day for months? 

Arthur should probably call Mal and tell her to cancel the whole thing, before he can offend the backup dancers, before the backup dancers can run to the press and detail how awful and boring Arthur is and create an absolute PR nightmare from which Arthur will never wake. 

Not a dream then, a nightmare. 

“Not dreaming,” Arthur whispers to himself, and makes an aborted gesture toward the call button. 

“Do your dreams normally take place in tasteless management lobbies?” asks a British voice to his left. 

Arthur flushes and turns. 

The voice belongs to a guy about Arthur’s age, maybe a little older (Arthur is terrible at guessing ages). He’s of a height with Arthur, albeit broader, although the precise degree of this broadness is hidden beneath an ill-fitting plaid button-down. Arthur tries not to ogle. The guy is basically a walking fantasy: muscles and full lips and shining eyes. _Now_ Arthur really thinks he’s dreaming. 

The guy is also smirking at Arthur like he knows exactly how ridiculously attractive Arthur finds him. 

“Sorry,” Arthur blurts, and jabs the call button. The doors open almost immediately. 

Arthur steps inside, and the British guy follows him. 

Arthur presses the button for the sixth floor, then steps back so the other can reach the panel, but the British guy seems content to slouch against the elevator’s back wall. 

“This is more like it,” the British guy says. 

“Sorry?” says Arthur.

“A dream. Two fit blokes in an elevator.” The guy winks. 

Arthur stares, and he can feel his face flushing, because is this guy _flirting_ with him? Is he being _hit on_ in management’s elevator? Everything about today is turning out to be wildly improbable. 

The elevator doors open onto the sixth floor, and Arthur is spared having to come up with an appropriate reply. (Or an inappropriate one. Either way.) 

The British guy follows him down the hall toward the conference room. 

It’s a long hallway. 

“Sorry,” Arthur begins, stopping halfway down and turning to face the other boy. “Are we going to the same meeting?” 

“Is that a problem?” 

_Yes_ , Arthur thinks. _I’ll be hopelessly distracted the entire time. Please take the next sixty seconds to make your face less attractive. By at least fifty percent._

“No,” says Arthur. 

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” says the British guy. “I’m like, mostly harmless, you know?” 

“ _Hitchhiker’s Guide_?” Arthur exclaims, before he can stop himself.

British Guy laughs. “How come the interviewers never ask you about your Douglas Adams kink? Although I imagine you’d be a bit more competent at all that than Arthur Dent.” 

Arthur blinks. 

“Sorry,” says British Guy. He looks abashed. “Probably not very professional. I’m Eames. I’m going to be one of your backup dancers. Unless you have me fired for sexual harassment.” 

“Oh,” says Arthur. “No, it’s fine, people don’t—.” 

Arthur stops talking. _People don’t normally joke and flirt with me because remember that thing where I would be the first one voted off the island_ is not exactly appropriate conversational material. 

“Anyway,” Arthur continues. “I’m Arthur. Um, but I guess you already knew that.” 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Arthur,” says Eames, his tone sincere. 

Despite himself, Arthur smiles. He can’t help it, because Eames kind of reminds him of a puppy dog—albeit a puppy dog whose mouth he has seen form the words _kink_ and _two fit blokes_. 

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” says Arthur. “We should—meeting, you know.” 

“Well, they can’t exactly start without you,” says Eames.

Arthur thinks about Mal. “They really would.” 

“One more inappropriate question, then?” Eames says, as they start walking again.

“Sure,” says Arthur. His minor freak-out in the lobby aside, he’s pretty sure Mal has already made everyone sign non-disclosure agreements, so it’s not like he’s going to find the substance of this conversation—or a weird perversion of it—on Sugarscape tomorrow. Hopefully. 

“No boyfriend, really?” says Eames. 

“What?” says Arthur, confused. 

“You always tell the press that you’re single. What I can’t figure out is if you’re doing that just because you want to protect your-and-his privacy,” says Eames. 

They reach the door, but neither reaches for the handle. 

“No boyfriend,” says Arthur. 

“I am honestly ashamed for the queer community,” says Eames. “The next Neil Patrick Harris should be _all over you_ by now.” 

“Um,” says Arthur. How is he supposed to say, _sorry I’m kind of approaching famous and am still hopelessly single?_

The door opens from the inside, and Mal almost walks into them on her way out. 

“Oh, you’re here,” she says to Arthur. “I was wondering if you’d become trapped in the elevator.” 

“No,” says Arthur, and risks a glance at Eames. “But I’m starting to think elevators get a bad rap.” 

Beside him, Eames is fighting back a grin. 

“Marvelous,” says Mal. “In you go, both of you.” 

The room is pretty standard, as conference rooms go. There’s a smallish table near the entrance with a coffee dispenser and plastic water bottles. ( _What a waste_ , Arthur thinks. He should have put that on his tour rider: No plastic water bottles.) A long, oval-shaped table takes up most of the space, around which all but three seats are already filled. Oops. 

“Arthur,” says Dom, standing up to shake his hand. “Good to see you again. Take a seat.” 

“Yeah—thanks,” says Arthur, smiling tightly and making his way toward the head of the table. (He is not actually sitting at the head, but rather to the right of it: the top seat is reserved for Mal.) 

Eames, he notices, takes his seat on the other side of the table, a few places down. When Eames catches him looking, he winks. Arthur turns back to Mal. 

Mal starts off with introductions. On the crew side, there’s Dom (the tour manager), Yusuf (the show’s overall designer, although the lights are also his special responsibility), and Marie (the head choreographer). It’s not everyone, obviously, but it’s the leads. The four members of the band are there, and Arthur is pleasantly surprised that the drummer is a woman and they’re not all white. Naturally, Mal decided to hire all of these people without once consulting Arthur. 

Then there are the backup dancers.

There are six of them total: four principals, who are meant to dance during almost every show, and two understudies, in the event that one of the principals becomes ill or injured, or has to miss a show for some other reason. The understudies’ names are Nash and Peter. The principals are Robert, Marc, and Darren. And Eames. 

“We’re using the album title as a theme,” Mal says, once the introductions are out of the way. “We want the audience to feel as if they are living outside of reality. It’s a two-hour dream, the best dream they’ll ever have, because we’re orchestrating the whole thing. So we’ll have something for everyone: we’ll have the big dance numbers, but they’ll be broken up by a couple where it will just be Arthur. Arthur’s enough of a dream on his own, isn’t he?” 

The assembled team laughs softly, on cue. Arthur tries not to squirm. At least he knows he’ll be getting a piano song or two. 

Yusuf and Marie each present what they’ve come up with so far. 

The show is split into thirds: he gets a costume change and a (ten-second) water break between each third. He’ll start out in a suit, obviously; the outfits for the second and final thirds will be progressively more casual, inviting the audience to experience a more ‘intimate’ side of him. The dancers will be with him most of the show, but for three songs—one in each third—it’ll be just him and a piano. He gets to play for a fourth, too, but Marie is set on having the dancers on during ‘Can’t Stay.’ 

Arthur is kind of hoping to talk to Eames again at the end of the meeting, but then Mal dismisses everyone except for Arthur. 

Arthur tries not to feel disappointed. 

It’s stupid, he knows—it was just a two-minute conversation on the way to a work meeting—but it made him feel as if he had an ally in the room. It’s been a while since he’s felt that way. 

“We need to discuss your Grammy date,” Mal says.

“My mom,” says Arthur.

He considered taking Ariadne, but he thought his mom probably deserved the invitation more. Plus, it was a six-hour plane ride from New York. 

“Marvelous,” says Mal. “The tabloids will coo about what a sweet boy you are, and parents will feel safe sending their daughters to concerts featuring such a wholesome young man.” 

Arthur snorts. “You have the backup dancers shirtless for all of ‘Merry Chase.’”

(Marie took the time to emphasize this point during the meeting. The other dancers nodded seriously, as if this was all very professional rather than blatant sex appeal, but Eames smirked and raised an eyebrow when he caught Arthur looking.) 

“But not you,” says Mal. “You’re allowed one to two PG-13 moments per show. We might bump this up to two to three later on, depending.”

“Depending?”

“Depending,” Mal affirms, and turns to the next item on the agenda. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Okay, people,” Marie yells, standing at the front of the practice stage in the basement of one of management’s many, many buildings. “We’re going to learn this show in order. The band’s still trying to work out live arrangements for some of this, so be prepared to do everything until you could do it in your sleep. Although we’ll be doing that anyway, because unlike you—” Marie points at the dancers, who are lounging together in one unfairly gorgeous cluster “—apparently our star doesn’t know how to dance.” 

Arthur stands awkwardly to the side. You’d think, after _The Voice_ , after months of promo, he’d be used to being the center of attention, but he’s not. Maybe he should have gone to college after all, majored in music production or something. Something that would let him stay behind the scenes. 

(Except. Except. He’s good at this. Not the crowds bit, maybe, not yet, but the singing bit. The writing bit. The looking good in a suit bit. And he wants all of that, together.) 

“Right, let’s start with a warm-up, shall we?” Marie claps her hands, and the dancers wander over toward them. 

Eames makes a beeline for Arthur, which he appreciates. He doesn’t want to spend the several months feeling like the odd man out in his own tour. 

“Don’t know how to dance, really?” Eames opens with. 

“No,” says Arthur. Is Eames going to make fun of him? 

But Eames just says, “Excellent.” 

Arthur cocks his head. “In what way?”

“Less for you to un-learn,” Eames says, and then Marie calls them to order and outlines a complicated warm-up regime of jumping-jacks and something called “dynamic stretching.” 

The thing about choreography, when they finally get around to it, is that there is a lot to learn. And it’s hard.

Or, it’s probably not hard, if you’ve trained to be able to quickly and easily memorize movements, but that’s not Arthur’s training, so it’s hard for him. He hasn’t done taekwondo since he was fifteen, and he’s forgotten how to learn motions in sequence. He _can_ learn them, and he knows his body is capable of executing them, but he’s going to need time. 

The thing about Arthur that management pretends not to know is that a lot of things are hard for him. He just wants them more and works harder than other people, which is how he gets everything done. Which is how he can still be the best—or trick people into thinking he is, anyway. 

He wasn’t valedictorian of his high school class because he was smarter than everyone else: he simply studied more. Like every other high achiever in the history of group projects, Arthur hated them (except when they got to pick partners and Ariadne was in his class), but he hated in-class group work more, because that meant he had to go through his entire thinking process in front of other people. Arthur preferred to retreat—to the library, to his house, anywhere that was _away_ —and think about the problem, and come up with the solution, and return triumphant while other people had given up and gone to bed. 

Learning choreography in front of seven trained dancers is more or less his worst nightmare. He doesn’t know how the understudies do it—they’ll have to learn everybody’s parts, so they can switch in as needed. 

After about forty-five minutes, Marie calls for a water break. 

Arthur is glad his water bottle is on the opposite side of the room from the dancers’. He should ask Marie to make a video of herself doing Arthur’s part. He could practice it at home, or after-hours. He’s sure they’d keep the practice room open for him. (Except he has to learn to move around, move with, other people, and he can’t do that if he’s alone. Fuck.) 

He slumps to the ground, back against the wall. He wishes Ariadne were here. He wishes someone were on his side. He drinks his water and waits for Marie to call time. 

“Hey.”

Arthur glances up. It’s Eames. 

“Mind if I join you?” 

“Sure,” says Arthur. 

“I’ve never done a tour like this before,” Eames says, sitting beside him. 

Arthur turns his head to look at Eames. There’s sweat lingering at his temples, like he hastily rubbed his face with a towel but wasn’t particularly thorough about it. 

“Not sure why they hired me, to be honest,” Eames continues. “I’d say it’s the accent, except…” He shrugs. 

Arthur feels a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Except you’re making the fewest mistakes out of all of us,” says Arthur. 

Eames rolls his eyes. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Care to share?” 

“Your choreography is different from ours. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You’re a singer, not a dancer.”

“I’m supposed to dance on tour,” says Arthur. 

“You will,” says Eames. “It’s only the first day. The first _hour_.” 

“It feels like the first hour of the rest of my life,” says Arthur. “And I’m terrible at it.” 

“You’ll get better,” says Eames. “It’s what you do. You’re the _best_.” 

Marie calls them over, and Eames stands, then offers Arthur a hand up. Arthur takes it. 

  


Several hours and many sore muscles later, Marie dismisses them for the day. Arthur lingers as the others pack up their things and call out good-byes. 

“Not heading out?” Eames asks, coming up behind him. 

Arthur shakes his head. “I’d like to run through it a few more times, without distractions.”

Eames raises his eyebrows, but helpfully doesn’t point out that, in a real concert situation, there will be a couple thousand distractions every night. (Unless Arthur is terrible and no one shows up, of course.) 

“Want me to stick around? There’s that bit you do with Robert, you’ll need a partner.” 

Arthur hesitates. 

“Or not,” Eames adds hastily. “Sorry, you wanted to do this on your own, you need your own headspace, or whatever, I get that, sorry.” 

“Wait,” says Arthur, before Eames can take more than a single step back. “You’re sure? I wouldn’t be, like, cutting into your evening plans or anything?” 

“I’ve just moved here from across the pond, and I’m not looking to break into Hollywood, or the music industry proper, darling,” says Eames. “No evening plans. Although I’d be happy to be yours.” He winks. 

Arthur blushes. _Darling_. “Well then,” says Arthur. “From the top?” 

Arthur doesn’t feel like messing with the sound system, so for the first time all day, he actually sings ‘Worth a Shot’ while they go through the steps. (Marie wanted him to learn the steps first, without trying to hit all the notes at the same time, especially since the band was still working through the new arrangement, so they’d been using a voice track.) It’s not full-on singing, not like he’s in the studio or in front of a crowd, but it’s enough to keep him and Eames moving, and—it helps. 

Or something does, anyway. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s finally singing, finally adding in the portion he knows he knows how to do. Maybe it’s that he’s free of Marie’s watchful gaze. Maybe it’s Eames. 

They run it a few times, until Arthur nails the routine, and then twice more, just to be sure he’s got it. 

“Marie is going to love you,” Eames says, once they’ve both changed into street clothes. 

“That’s the plan,” says Arthur, heading for the door of the practice room. 

“I stand corrected,” says Eames. “Everyone is going to love you.”

Arthur pauses, hand near the light switch. “I’d settle for enough people to make the next single debut higher on the U.S. charts than ‘Gravity.’”

Eames laughs. “You’ve got to dream a little bigger, darling.” 

“What?”

“Which one is your next single?” 

“‘Merry Chase.’” 

The music video Arthur shot for it just before Thanksgiving drops next Friday. 

“That one’s my favorite,” Eames says. “Unfortunately I don’t control the masses, or it’d happen for this one, but your next album, the first or second single? Worldwide number one.” 

“Really,” says Arthur. 

“Really.” 

Arthur hits the lights and they exit into the hallway. 

“Where to?” Eames asks.

“Home, I guess,” says Arthur. 

“No fancy L.A. friends taking you out tonight?” Eames asks. 

“I don’t really know anyone in L.A.,” Arthur confesses.

Eames must know that Arthur knows a lot of people in L.A., on a technical, professional level. Arthur even _likes_ a few people in L.A. (a very few, mostly his co-writers). And they would all say ‘hi’ at an industry event; most of them would even take him out for lunch or dinner if Arthur said he had a question or wanted advice, or if management requested it. None of them would arrange a celebratory, just-had-your-first-day-of-tour-rehearsals outing unprompted. 

Which is _totally and completely fine_. 

“Well,” says Eames. “You know me.” 

  


The problem is that Arthur chooses a restaurant he’s familiar with, a restaurant with a solid menu and nice outdoor seating, complete with overhead heat lamps because January by the ocean-side is not to be taken lightly. And because Arthur grew up in the metropolitan sprawl, as opposed to Los Angeles proper, the only restaurants with which he is familiar are places he’s been to for Becoming a Pop Star purposes. And because this is Los Angeles and a known industry spot, there happens to be an actress whose management has arranged for her lovely, open-air dinner to be the subject of pap shots (at least, according to Mal, twelve hours after the fact). And because whichever photographer hired by whichever PR company was apparently opportunistic (although, aren’t they all?), they took a minute to get some shots of Arthur and Eames as well.

Arthur didn’t notice the photographer at dinner—probably because he was too busy staring at Eames, because, what the hell, how could someone’s face be so beautiful and so expressive all at once?—but he does notice when fans start re-tweeting the released photos the next morning as he’s waiting to be picked up. (Arthur loves driving. He hates driving downtown, though, and management doesn’t want him driving because that’s an accident waiting to happen, literally, and they somehow still don’t trust that he’ll show up to rehearsal on time if he’s left to his own devices, so it works out in the end.) 

**@tammyro17** : @anotherarthur your bf?!?! So cute together omg!!!

**@georgierrrrr** : this is the literal definition of heart eyes awww @anotherarthur 

**@felicite2828** : WHO IS THAT MAN WITH @anotherarthur?! Drooling rn 

_Shit_ , Arthur thinks. Then, _seriously_? 

Has his life truly become so insane that he can’t even get dinner with a _colleague_ without it being splashed all over Twitter and completely misconstrued?

(Well, sort of misconstrued. It wasn’t a date, it was a… everyone-else-in-L.A.-sucks-except-for-you meal, and if Arthur thinks that Eames is also the most attractive person he’s ever met, _so sue him_. Arthur has management’s lawyers available, plus one of his very own on retainer. He’ll win.) 

The driver texts Arthur to let him know the car has arrived. 

Arthur wishes he’d thought to ask for Eames’s number. Not for… not for… the reasons you normally asked people for their numbers, but for work purposes. Although, to be fair, ‘I’ll need to notify you if my Twitter stalkers find out’ sounds like a very implausible excuse. 

Arthur is clambering into the car, still frowning at his phone, when Mal texts. 

_From Mal: Saw the photos. Issue a clarification—be friendly! His Twitter is @eamesss._

_To Mal: On it_. 

Arthur opens the Twitter app. Sure enough, a search of @eamesss immediately brings him to a profile with a picture of someone who is unmistakably Eames, shirtless and clutching a puppy. ( _How is he real_ , Arthur asks himself.) Arthur follows Eames, turns on notifications for him, and then opens a new tweet. 

**@anotherarthur** : Great first day of rehearsals yesterday! Hope you’re all as excited for the tour as I am. 

**@anotherarthur** : It’s been fantastic getting to know my tour team. @eamesss came all the way from England to dance for you all! 

Arthur hopes that’s what Mal had in mind. 

A minute later, Eames tweets. 

**@eamesss** : Never say Americans aren’t a friendly bunch! Thanks @anotherarthur for welcoming me to the States (and your tour)! 

  


“Sorry,” Arthur says, as soon as he spots Eames in the rehearsal space. “I don’t actually have stalkers, I promise.”

Eames waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. It’s L.A., you’re pretty and famous, it happens.” 

_Sweetheart_ and _pretty_ completely derail what Arthur was going to say next, and suddenly Arthur doesn’t know how to politely and coherently say, _It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you, but no one should have a private dinner splashed all over the Internet without their consent or at least without warning, and I never would have suggested sitting outside if I had known, and also remember that bit where I’m gay and I think you might be too, based on your comfortable-but-not-insulting use of the word ‘queer’ in our very first conversation—_

Eames continues, “I also got a bunch more Twitter followers, so my agent will be happy about that.” 

“Oh,” says Arthur. 

“Oh _, no_ , not like—” Eames says at once. “I’m not using you for Twitter purposes. I wouldn’t do that. I was just—trying to make light of the situation, because you seem… uncomfortable.” 

Something in Arthur unclenches. Not that he’d really thought Eames would, but—it’s nice to hear, anyway. 

“It’s still so… new,” Arthur says. “Don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire, or anything.” 

_Also, I can’t have the Internet telling you I might possibly actually want to date you before I have a chance to tell you_ , he adds to himself. 

(Because sometime in between when Eames gave his full attention to the waitress as she was reeling off the specials and when Eames pulled off a perfect James Bond impersonation over their shared chocolate mousse, Arthur started to wish they were on real date.)

(Scratch that. Sometime between their first conversation in the elevator and Eames going out of his way to talk to Arthur during rehearsal, Arthur knew he was always going to want more.) 

“I can take it,” says Eames.

“Take what?” Robert asks, shrugging off his sweatshirt as he nears them. 

“Some overenthusiastic fans of mine,” says Arthur. 

“Feel free to send them my way,” says Robert airily. 

Before Arthur can think of anything to say, Marie calls them to order, and Day Two of tour rehearsals begins. 

Arthur is better today. It throws him, at first, having to remember that he has three other dancers, that it’s not just him and Eames, but then Eames winks at him and Arthur’s brain freezes and his body does the next step _on autopilot_ and it’s possible Arthur has never been more elated. 

By the end of the day, they’re working on the transition to the next song, ‘Labyrinth.’ ‘Worth a Shot’ isn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but Marie wants to pull each third together in a week before going back for fine-tuning, so it’s time to push forward. 

“Great work today, everyone,” Marie calls, then beckons Arthur over. “I’m hiring a trainer for tour, for you and the dancers. Did you have anyone in mind?” 

“A trainer?” Arthur asks.

“A fitness trainer,” Marie clarifies. “To keep your strength and cardio up while you’re on the road. You might think doing the show four times a week would be enough, but it won’t be. So, anybody you’ve got your eye on? No promises, of course, but I think your team is willing to spring for somebody good—and I’m going to insist on it.” 

Part of Arthur wants to go home and spend all night researching personal trainers who seem willing to leave L.A. for months at a time. Part of Arthur wants to create a massive spreadsheet and track down testimonials from people whose phone numbers he’d never dreamed he would someday possess. Part of Arthur wants to emerge from his apartment at dawn, clutching the name of someone Marie will agree is _the best_. 

Across the room, Eames is lingering, fiddling with his phone. As if he can feel Arthur’s eyes on him, he glances up, smiles. 

“I’m sure whoever you pick out will be fine,” says Arthur. “I’ll want to meet them before tour starts, of course, but your knowledge of who’s available is greater than mine.” 

“That’s that, then,” Marie says. “I’ll pull together a shortlist by next week.” 

She bids him good night and leaves. 

“Want to run it?” Eames asks, making his way over. 

“If you don’t mind,” says Arthur. 

With the practice space empty except for the two of them, it feels bigger. Somehow, without the random detritus of rehearsal, it feels easier to envision the stage surrounded by fans. It’s a heady thought, one that makes Arthur push the tempo a little too fast, but at least he nails the steps. 

Arthur calls a halt after they’ve successfully worked through the transition a couple of times. 

“There’s a really good Korean place not too far from my place,” Eames says casually. 

“Oh?” says Arthur. 

“Family-owned. Tiny. Quiet,” says Eames. “If you’d like.” 

“Sounds perfect,” says Arthur, and it is. 

  


Eames is _fascinating_. He never runs out of stories, and what intrigues Arthur most is that while half of the stories are set in ridiculous places with ridiculous people—Opening Ceremonies for the London Olympics, Ascot, a selection of Mombasa nightclubs—the other half start out completely ordinary—with a customs officer at a pub quiz, or some teenagers at an ice cream shop—before deviating wildly in a way Arthur can only classify as Eamesian. 

What happens to all of these ordinary people, in all of these ordinary places, to turn them into anecdotal gold? How does Eames do it? 

  


_To Ariadne: I think I’m making a friend?_

_From Ariadne: The hot British boy from twitter?_

_To Ariadne: UGGHHHH_

_To Ariadne: But yes_

_From Ariadne: So a friend or a FRIEND *winky face*_

_To Ariadne: …_

_From Ariadne: Seriously, I’m happy for you! We were worried about you being lonely_

_To Ariadne: We?_

_From Ariadne: Your mom & I _

_To Ariadne: I’m FINE._

_From Ariadne: Yeah, but there’s fine and there’s good, and I think this Eamesss guy might push you toward good_

_To Ariadne: It’s just Eames._

_From Ariadne: That’s not what his twitter handle says_

_To Ariadne: Is it weird that I never… bothered to make friends after you?_

_From Ariadne: Maybe? Who cares_

_From Ariadne: Also, you didn’t make friends with me. I made friends with you_

_To Ariadne: Right, so how do I know I’m doing it right?_

_From Ariadne: From those pictures it looked like he was having a good time…_

_To Ariadne: NOT HELPFUL_

_From Ariadne: Does he voluntarily seek you out?_

_To Ariadne: He offered to help when he noticed I was going to stay behind to practice some more._

_From Ariadne: And you let him?_

_To Ariadne: … yes_

_From Ariadne: MY BABY, ALL GROWN UP_

_To Ariadne: I’m four months older than you._

_From Ariadne: I’m sorry, who was asking for friendship lessons again?_

  


By the end of the week, Eames doesn’t even ask if Arthur wants him to stay after rehearsal, he just does, retying his shoes and managing to make loitering not look suspicious while Arthur goes over notes with Marie and fields quick progress phone calls from Mal. 

When they’re done on Friday, Arthur says, “We should probably not eat out every night. Marie and whatever trainer she ends up hiring will kill us.” 

Eames’s face falls. “You’re right. Of course,” he says. 

“But I thought you could come over to mine, if you wanted,” says Arthur. “I can cook, sort of.” 

He did his weekly grocery shopping early—the night before, in fact—just so he could make the offer. Inviting Eames to his apartment is terrifying, of course—Arthur’s stomach is clenching and his heart is hammering and he thought semi-celebrities were supposed to be above all of this—but he also knows they really can’t continue eating out all the time, and, well… He wants to keep spending time with Eames more than he’s afraid of inviting Eames over. 

Eames laughs. “Only sort of?” 

“I can make seven dinners,” says Arthur. “I rotate.” 

“How did someone this adorable write ‘Merry Chase?’” Eames asks no one in particular. 

“So, yes?” Arthur asks. He’s not fiddling with the hem of his shirt or anything so obvious, but it’s a near thing. 

“Of course I want to go back to your flat and help you make one of your seven dinners, darling,” says Eames. 

“It’s an apartment,” Arthur argues, just to be contrary. Just to ignore the fluttery feeling in his stomach because _darling_. 

“Yes, whatever would I do without your translation skills? America has me woefully befuddled. Poor Eames, all alone in the middle of this bloody country.” Eames makes a sweeping motion with his arms. 

“In the middle of this country, twenty minutes from the Pacific?” Arthur counters. 

“Take me to your flat, pet,” Eames says. 

Since Eames has a car and Arthur doesn’t drive to rehearsal, it’s really more of a _direct me to your flat_ arrangement, and half an hour later, Eames is standing in the middle of the living room/eating area, spinning in a slow circle, while the oven pre-heats. Arthur can’t imagine what he’s taking in, exactly, because the walls are bare and the furniture minimal. Even his keyboard is in the bedroom.

Eames shakes his head. “This won’t do at all, I’m afraid.” 

“Um, sorry?” says Arthur. 

“Do you really live here, or have you invited me to a showroom so you can murder me without anyone connecting you to the dastardly deed?” Eames asks. 

“I live here?” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Pretty sure, yeah,” says Arthur. He has no idea what there could be in the room to which Eames could possibly object. 

“Because… anybody could live here. Or, not anybody, nobody could. Definitely nobody could tell _you_ live here,” says Eames. 

Arthur looks around the room again. “I have stuff in my bedroom,” he offers. 

This is somehow the only logical response and yet also the stupidest possible response, because then of course he has to invite Eames into his _bedroom_. And not just any bedroom, but a bedroom in an apartment that is all his, without the threat of parents coming back from work or gardening or what have you. 

The first thing Eames notices is the _Attitude_ cover. “That was a nice article.” 

“Thanks,” says Arthur. He wanders over to the keyboard, lets his hands trail along the keys. 

“Nice pictures, too.” 

When Arthur glances back at Eames, Eames smirks. 

There’s some other stuff on the corkboard and surrounding walls, too: some of the album art, old concert ticket stubs, a picture of him and his mom at Yosemite and another of him and Ariadne in San Francisco. 

“So someone does live here,” Eames says. “You, in fact.” 

“Yes,” says Arthur. 

Eames’s brow creases. “But why isn’t there anything in the main room? Do you have, like, industry people over and need to keep that space…blank for public consumption?” 

“No,” says Arthur. “I just never got around to finishing decorating. I moved in between _The Voice_ ’ssummer tour and album promo, so putting posters up wasn’t really a priority.” 

Eames _hm_ s. “You have the other posters here, not at your mom’s?”

Arthur nods. 

“Nails, a level, all that shit?” 

“I have a level app,” says Arthur. 

“Why don’t we just hang stuff up tonight?” Eames suggests. “You’ve been living here for _months_ , this is ridiculous.” 

“I know,” says Arthur. “It just didn’t happen… so it kept… just not happening.” 

“Well, it’s happening now,” says Eames. “Unless you have actual reasons that you’re just not telling me, in which case we can—”

“No deep psychological objections, simply inertia,” Arthur says. 

By the time dinner is ready, a glossy HAL 9000 poster is keeping watch over them, and Eames has suggested placements for two others. 

“I think what you like most about sci-fi is the abundance of Arthurs,” Eames comments. 

Arthur _almost_ reaches out for Eames’s hand to tug him toward the table, but catches himself in time. “Big shoes to fill,” he says instead. 

“The aliens can kidnap you and you can become the first multi-galaxy hit,” Eames says. “That’s at least as impressive as pulling a sword out of a stone.” 

They eat, and afterwards Eames insists on helping with the dishes, both of them lingering over each step. Arthur would invite him to stay longer, watch a movie— _Iron Man_ , maybe—but he’s still feeling out the boundaries of their friendship. Maybe another night. 

“So long, darling,” Eames says as he tugs on his shoes. “Thanks for all the fish.” 

“We had chicken,” Arthur forces himself to say, even though he wants to laugh and maybe give Eames a little shove for being so utterly absurd.

“Yeah, but ‘thanks for all the chicken’ doesn’t quite have the same ring to it,” says Eames. 

“I suppose not,” says Arthur. 

Eames pats his jacket pocket, checking for his keys. 

“Drive safe,” Arthur offers.

“Oh, you know me,” says Eames, and winks. 

“Yeah, exactly,” says Arthur. “Drive safe.” 

Some time later, when Arthur is curled into bed, watching old _Star Trek_ episodes on his laptop, his phone buzzes with a text.

_From Eames: Home, safe and sound, despite the best efforts of LA traffic & also to the chagrin of my flatmates_

Arthur doesn’t know how he can possibly reply without sounding hopelessly sappy. His fingers are still hovering over the screen when a second text comes in.

_From Eames: Thanks for all the chicken. Good night!_

_From Arthur: Thanks for helping with the posters. Good night :)_

He tries not to overthink the smiley face. Smiley faces are friendly. He and Eames are friends. _Nothing to see here._


	4. Chapter 4

Midway through the next week, Arthur gives up and calls Ariadne. Mal scheduled a meeting after rehearsal, so he skipped both post-rehearsal practice with Eames _and_ dinner with Eames, and he was feeling more than a little put-out. 

“It was ‘Merry Chase’ Day,” he begins, without preamble. 

“I thought it didn’t drop until Friday?” 

“No, not the video,” Arthur corrects. “For tour rehearsals. We did the choreography today.” 

“Okay,” says Ariadne. “And this is of importance because…?”

“Because the dancers are shirtless for the entire four minutes and seventeen seconds of the tour version, and Marie insists we practice it that way.” 

“So, Eames?” 

“He has tattoos,” Arthur groans. “That’s not even supposed to be hot—you know my feelings about tattoos—”

“I do,” says Ariadne. 

“—but, ugh. I couldn’t even look at him.”

“That bad?” 

“He is stupidly attractive,” says Arthur. 

“Wait until he sees you in a suit. That’s what you’re opening the show in, right?” 

“Yeah. And I’m going to be a sweaty mess in it, so…” 

“Maybe he can help you with the quick-change for the second part,” Ariadne suggests. 

Arthur doesn’t hang up on her, but it’s tempting. 

  


**@anotherarthur** : MERRY CHASE video is HERE! vimeo.link 

**@anotherarthur** : Everyone worked really hard to make this one – hope you enjoy! #MerryChase

**@eamesss** : Not much dancing in this version, but just wait until you see @anotherarthur do our tour version live vimeo.link #MerryChase 

**@anotherarthur** : @eamess Shh! No sneak previews! (Also, @ everybody: Still not a dancer. That’s a different reality competition.) 

  


‘Merry Chase’ is hailed as this year’s ‘Uptown Funk.’ Eames bakes a celebratory cake and brings it in to rehearsal on Monday. The cake is at least as delicious as the critical acclaim. 

  


Arthur likes routines. He likes patterns, and schedules, and predictability. So despite the continued stress of tour preparations, he likes the little life he’s building: He attends rehearsal and mostly learns the choreography for that day’s song. Then, he and Eames stay behind to actually learn the routine. A few nights a week, they’ll eat together after, either at some tiny place Eames has found during his weekend wanderings (while Arthur is in meetings with Mal and Dom about the business side of things), or at Arthur’s apartment. 

It’s always Arthur’s apartment, never Eames’s, because Eames’s agent thought it would be good a idea for him to share an apartment with two of his American clients, neither of whom, as it turns out, particularly care for pop music or foreigners or gay people. Eames is naturally keen to spend as little time there as possible, and Arthur is far from being offended at the lack of reciprocity. 

On the whole, Arthur feels more settled than he ever did while on _The Voice_ , and everything is going right, and maybe he can really do this. 

  


It all goes to hell the day they’re supposed to learn ‘Inception.’ 

Arthur just can’t do it. His body simply does _not_ want to do anything Marie is showing him, and he’s seriously holding back progress for the first time in a week, and Arthur has been getting better at this whole learning-movement-in-front-of-people thing, he really has. 

But ‘Inception’ is going nowhere, and goes nowhere, all day long. 

Marie finally calls a halt. “Look,” she says. “You’re having an off day. That happens. But you can do this, Arthur. If you were another artist, maybe I’d be worried, but it’s you, so I’m not. You’ll work whatever magic you normally do overnight, and tomorrow it’ll come together, like it always does.” 

Arthur stares after her as she sweeps out of the room, the dancers trailing behind her.

The dancers, minus Eames. 

“It’s not magic,” Arthur says, a little desperate. He stares at the floor in front of him, scuffed from his endless mistakes. “It’s _you_.” 

“You put in the hours, too,” says Eames from behind him. Arthur can’t bring himself to turn. 

“I’m _not—_ ” Arthur huffs in frustration. “She shouldn’t just go around saying, ‘oh, you’re Arthur, it’ll _happen_.’ Yeah, it happens, because I _made it happen_. Because I _worked_ for it. It doesn’t just—I’m not, inherently—”

“I know,” says Eames. A pause. “It’s not you, this time.” 

“What?”

“You know the, it’s not you, it’s me speech?” 

“ _What_?” says Arthur, spinning around to face Eames. They’re not _together_. And if they’re not dating, how can Eames break up with him for failing to learn some stupid dance? Is this some sort of pre-emptive break up? A reverse ‘Do You Love Me (Now That I Can Dance)’? 

“It’s not you, it’s the choreography,” says Eames. 

“Are we in _White Christmas_ or something?” Arthur asks. 

Eames blinks at him. “You are delightful,” he proclaims. “Did you know that, darling?” 

Arthur stares back. Apparently they entered the _Twilight Zone_ without him noticing. 

“The choreography,” Eames begins. “It’s all wrong.” 

“Well, I’m doing it wrong, yes,” says Arthur impatiently. He knows that, thanks. That’s the fucking problem. 

“No,” Eames insists. “I mean, the choreography is wrong for the song. You’re not getting it because it doesn’t _fit_ and you know that.” 

“I don’t know anything about choreography,” says Arthur. “I don’t know anything about dancing.” 

“Yes, but, darling,” Eames says, “you know these songs intimately, better than anybody else. You know their tone and rhythm and style and flow and all of it. You can _feel_ that this whole thing is off, which is why you can’t learn it. It’s… incoherent.” 

“I—” Arthur starts, ready to argue with Eames and insist upon his own incompetence, except Eames is _right_. Eames is a dancer; he knows dance, and it doesn’t feel right to him, either. “You learned it, though,” he says eventually. 

Eames rolls his eyes. “Because I’m a dancer. By training. Some of it, anyway. You’ve no idea what shit choreographers you sometimes have to deal with in the most unexpected places. But you learn their stuff and they give you a reference and off you go. Believe me: I don’t know how Marie got this song so wrong, but the choreography just doesn’t work for it.” 

“Huh,” says Arthur. He sits down in the middle of the practice stage. Somehow, this feels like a sitting-down conversation, and there are no chairs nearby. “That… doesn’t actually solve our problem, though. Well, my problem.” 

“Our problem,” Eames says, sitting across from him. 

Arthur supposes having the star of the show constantly messing up the dance would throw off everybody else, too. 

“So how do I get over myself and learn the thing?” Arthur asks. Of course this would be a problem he has; of course he can’t learn the stupid choreography when the choreography is bad. Ariadne is going to die laughing when she learns. (Because of course he is going to tell her. Arthur tells Ariadne everything. It’s how they work.) 

“Don’t,” says Eames. 

“I have to.” 

“No,” says Eames. “It’s your show, and this choreography sucks. You’re not using it. Fucking hell, _I’m_ not using it. I expected better from Marie.” 

“Sorry,” says Arthur. 

Eames raises an eyebrow. “Not your fault. As you just said, you’re not a choreographer, or a dancer. It’s her job to know better.” 

“I’m not sure I can fire her,” Arthur muses. “I’d have to take that up with Dom, or Mal. Maybe both?” 

“No need to get anybody to fire her, she’s good,” Eames says. “She just doesn’t understand the song. You need imagination for this song, for this dance, and she’s got a bit, but I’ve got more.” 

“What are you suggesting?” Arthur asks. They need a plan, and fast. 

“We’re going to fix the choreography,” says Eames.

“When? And, we?” 

“Now, and, mostly me, but you can help, you wrote the thing,” says Eames.

“Co-wrote,” Arthur corrects. 

“Do you have it memorized?” Eames asks.

“Of course,” says Arthur. 

“Sing it for me?” 

Even though they’ve been listening to it all day and surely Eames knows it by now, Arthur sings. Eames closes his eyes, nodding along, his fingers tapping out the beat on the stage floor. 

When Arthur finishes, Eames leaps up. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ve got it.” 

“Really?” Arthur stands, too. 

“Marie’s version has no subtlety. What this dance needs is more layers. And it needs to feel more organic, you know? Right now, it’s straight out of the pop star factory, which works for some of the others, but not for this one. This one needs to emerge… as if on its own. Is there any paper?” 

“In my bag,” says Arthur. Quickly, he rummages through it, then passes a notebook and a pen to Eames. 

“Right then,” says Eames, flicking the pen cap off and sketching the outline of the stage on a blank sheet. “It’s like this…” 

When Eames finishes walking him through the basic outline, Arthur knows he’s right: Eames’s version is so, so much better. 

Watching Eames work through Arthur’s new part, Arthur thinks, _You’re incredible. And amazing. And brilliant. And I want to kiss you._

But he doesn’t, because he still needs an ally on tour and Eames is both the most likely and the only candidate and Arthur doesn’t want to complicate that; Arthur’s done with making snap decisions. 

Arthur doesn’t kiss Eames. Instead, Arthur learns this new routine faster than he’s ever learned any of the others. 

  


The next morning, Eames is lingering in the hallway outside of the practice room when Arthur arrives. 

“You’re early,” Arthur notes. Eames is rarely early. Never late, but never early. He has fashionably on-time down to an art form. 

Eames shrugs. “We need to talk to Marie before rehearsal starts.” 

Arthur wishes he’d had a second cup of coffee. He nods at Eames and strides inside, aiming straight for Marie without setting his bag down first. Eames follows. 

“Morning, Arthur, Eames,” she says, looking up from her clipboard. 

“Good morning,” says Arthur, and abruptly stalls. He doesn’t want to be a drama queen, or a controlling artist that nobody wants to work with, but… 

Marie waits for a few seconds, then turns to Eames, one plucked eyebrow raised. 

“Arthur and I have something we’d like to show you, if we may?” Eames steps in. 

Marie nods her assent, and Arthur hums a wholly inadequate vocal warm-up while Eames shoos the other dancers away and cues up the backing track for ‘Inception.’ 

And then they’re in their places and the music is starting and Arthur is singing and moving, Eames weaving in and out of his line of vision, and with the half-dozen people arrayed in front of them, it feels much more like a performance than any other moment of the past three weeks, and Arthur is so, so determined to dance well. Not just because he likes to do everything well, but for Eames, because this dance is Eames’s creation, and Arthur wants to be worthy of it, wants to prove to Marie that Eames’s idea really is superior. He isn’t going to let his sub-par dancing skills get in the way of that. 

The song ends, and, after a beat, Arthur relaxes from his final pose. He turns his head, his eyes seeking Eames’. Eames catches his glance, grins. 

The band, who has been watching from the side, bursts into applause. 

“Well,” says Marie. “I see somebody’s aiming for extra credit.” She eyes the five dancers standing beside her. “Everybody up for learning a new routine?” 

And just like that, it’s done. 

They’re only nearly caught up with the schedule by the end of the day, because even though Arthur and Eames knew the new version, it was really only a first draft, and plenty of things had to be changed as they were better able to visualize the full routine with the other dancers. Plus, everyone else had to forget what they’d worked so hard to learn the day before, even though the music was exactly the same, so their muscle memory was working against them. 

“Eames,” Marie calls at the end of the day, after she’s dismissed the rest of the dancers. 

Arthur pretends to be very focused on his phone. 

“I hope that was okay,” Eames begins. “I don’t mean to step on any toes. Arthur just—we realized—”

“It’s more than all right,” says Marie. “The new version is lovely. Thank you.” 

“Oh,” says Eames. 

“I didn’t know you did choreography as well,” Marie continues.

A pause. “I don’t.” 

“Well,” says Marie, “if you ever get sick of dancing, I’d encourage you to continue.” 

“Oh,” says Eames again. “I don’t really—”

“Yes,” says Marie firmly. She nods once, already heading for the door. “Good night, then.” 

Eames turns to face Arthur, who stops pretending to care about his phone. 

“Look at you, master choreographer,” he teases.

Eames shakes his head. “Just this one, you know, a fluke, because we’ve been dancing together for a few weeks now and all…” 

“Would you consider it?” Arthur asks, curious now. 

“Consider what?” 

“Becoming an actual choreographer.”

“Are you telling me I should be looking for a new job?”

“ _No_ ,” Arthur huffs. “You’re absolutely not allowed to desert me.” 

“Deal,” says Eames promptly. 

Arthur swallows. _Anyway_. “I’m just saying, you’re good. Really, really impressive. And I guess I’ve never asked… if this is what you want to do, long-term. Or even medium-term. Dancing, I mean.” 

Eames shrugs. “Haven’t thought about it that much, to be honest. Never been the five-year-plan type. Not like you.” 

“I’m not saying you have to be, or should be,” says Arthur quickly. 

“At this point,” says Eames, “the only future plan I’m concerned about is what we’re doing for dinner. Because I think we definitely deserve cake after today.” 

“You’re on,” says Arthur. 

  


Eames eats his cake with a spoon, even though it’s perfectly ordinary cake, without a melted-chocolate center or ice cream on the side. 

Arthur has never understood wanting to kiss food bits off of other people’s faces, but now—now he definitely, definitely does. 

Eames is beautiful. And funny. And kind. And so talented, even though he pretends he’s not. 

_And absolutely off-limits_ , Arthur reminds himself. 

Arthur takes a final bite of cake and tries to tell himself that watching Eames swallow his own last bite would be a bad idea. (Arthur watches anyway.) 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’ve been promising a Sunday/Wednesday/Friday update schedule, but I have to deviate from that (this week only?) in order to ~~assure my relatives I have a job and third-wheel my brother & his girlfriend~~ attend a family wedding. Instead of updating on Friday and Sunday, I will be traveling halfway across the country and back; Chapter Six will be posted on Monday.  
>   
> MEANWHILE, I hope you enjoy this long chapter, and I’ll see you next week!

The rest of February and into March is a blur: final tour rehearsals; late nights watching _Psych_ with Eames; the Grammys with his mom; visiting what feels like every art museum in the L.A. area because Eames hasn’t been to any of them before; Arthur's birthday and the accompanying, somewhat awful industry party; Eames insisting they spend the next day at a beach, cell phones off; an increasing number of Twitter followers who want to know why Arthur has taken a sudden interest in _EastEnders_ ; Eames, Eames, Eames. 

  


“How’s your boyfriend?” Ariadne asks one night over Skype. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Arthur replies automatically. 

“But you knew who I was talking about,” says Ariadne. 

“Because we have this conversation at least once a week,” says Arthur.

“So why isn’t he your boyfriend yet?” Ariadne gives him a Look that even the crappy Skype connection can’t blur away. 

Arthur buries his head in his hands. “Like, a thousand different reasons.”

“Name some.” 

“ _One_ , he probably doesn’t even want to date me, because he’s just, unbelievably sexy, Ari, like you can’t believe—”

“—I follow him on Twitter, I _can_ believe—”

“—and the nicest and he gets people to like him instantly and I’m useless with people, you know that.” 

“You go on dates every weekend,” says Ariadne. “So apparently you’re not useless with him.” 

“They’re not dates,” Arthur protests. “We’re friends. We hang out. We do stuff together. Like the two of us did, before you ditched me for New York.” 

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “Yeah, to get a degree, like a normal person.” 

“ _New York_ ,” Arthur whines. 

“Back to the point,” says Ariadne. “We didn’t go _out_. We stayed in and binge-watched Netflix and ate popcorn. He takes you on museum dates.” 

“He’s new here,” Arthur says. “He just doesn’t want to go by himself.”

Ariadne’s eyes light up. “But didn’t you just say that he’s good with people? So if Eames is, in fact, like you say he is, then surely he has lots of people who would love go to LACMA with him… and he chooses you.” 

Arthur frowns. “He’s new here, and I think he’s still getting his footing a bit, and I’m not going to make him uncomfortable by telling him I… like him. Plus we still have all of tour, so we’d have to be uncomfortable _on stage in front of thousands of people_ until the end of September, and I wouldn’t ask that of either of us. And even though I’m not actually his boss, I kind of am?” 

Ariadne _hm_ s, rewinding her scarf around her neck as she thinks. “I get not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable because of some sort of… status differential,” says Ariadne. She swivels in her chair for a moment, tapping her fingers on the desk. “But I really don’t think that’s relevant here. He came all the way to L.A. by himself: I don’t think he’s unable to take care of himself, or the type of person to feel that kind of social pressure—which, again, I don’t think exists in this case, because you’re not just his kind-of-not-really employer. You’re his best friend.” 

“You’re my best friend,” says Arthur at once. 

“You can have more than one best friend,” says Ariadne. 

Arthur considers this. “So Eames is my industry best friend, then. Full stop.” 

“Ask him out, Arthur,” says Ariadne. “You know you want to.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea,” Arthur retorts. 

“Have I ever steered you wrong, about anything important?” 

“No,” Arthur sighs. “But I’m not going to ask him out.” 

“What if he asks you?” 

“Irrelevant,” says Arthur. “He doesn’t want to date me.” 

“Ugh,” says Ariadne. After a moment, though, she brightens. “Did you notice that he followed me back on Twitter?” 

“Yes,” says Arthur. “My fans can’t decide whether they should start shipping you two, or whether it’s a sign that Eames and I are actually closer than Twitter would have you believe.” 

“You and Eames are closer than Twitter would have you believe. You hardly interact at all online,” says Ariadne. 

“Because our relationship—our _friendship_ —is _private_ ,” says Arthur. “It’s not for public consumption and analysis.” 

“Fair enough,” says Ariadne. 

The conversation drifts to other topics—Ariadne having to act as remote tech support for her parents even though she now lives nearly three thousand miles away; Arthur’s suspicions that his tour manager is trying to use him to instigate a relationship with Mal; Ariadne’s midterms—but right as they’re saying goodbye, Ariadne adds, “Just ask him.”

And promptly hangs up. 

  


Arthur is going to vomit. 

He’s currently kneeling on the bathroom floor backstage at the venue of his first-ever solo concert and he is definitely, definitely going to throw up. 

There’s a knock on the door. 

“Arthur, darling?” _Eames._

Arthur can’t bring himself to reply. If he opens his mouth, surely he’ll vomit. Oh god, how is he supposed to _sing_? 

The handle turns, because apparently Arthur forgot to lock it in his haste to escape the green room and the general fussing, and Eames enters. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Eames says.

“Hi,” Arthur manages. 

“Your opener sounds pretty good,” says Eames. 

“Okay.”

“You’re better.” 

“She didn’t throw up before her set,” says Arthur.

“Have you actually?” 

“Not yet,” says Arthur. 

“All right then,” says Eames. “Well done.” Somehow, it doesn’t sound condescending. 

“This is a terrible idea,” says Arthur.

“What is?” Eames crouches down beside Arthur. 

“The tour. Being… famous, ish.” 

“I think it’s a great idea,” says Eames. “You’re great.” 

“I can’t do it. I’m going to forget all the steps.” 

“You’re not going to forget the steps,” says Eames patiently.

“Yes, I—” 

“You’re _not_ , and even if you do, as long as you keep singing, it’ll be fine. Nobody knows what it’s ‘supposed’ to look like.”

“I’m going to forget the words to the songs,” Arthur insists. 

“You can sing your set in your sleep. In a _coma_. Although I wouldn’t recommend that last one, love,” says Eames. 

Arthur takes a deep breath. “It’s just… It’s just me, you know? Last year, on tour, there were a bunch of us, and it wasn’t even our own stuff, but—but this is all me. These are my songs.” 

“It’s not just you,” says Eames. “I’ll be out there with you, all right?” 

“Okay,” says Arthur, after a beat. 

“Come on, then,” says Eames, standing up and holding out a hand for Arthur to grasp. “You wouldn’t want to deprive the world of seeing me dance shirtless, would you?” 

Despite himself, Arthur grins. He takes Eames’s hand and somehow manages to stand. 

“It will hardly be a surprise though,” he says. “Do you have any Twitter selfies _with_ a shirt on?” 

“Maybe one or two,” says Eames, pulling open the bathroom door. 

Robert, who’d apparently been walking from another dressing room into the main green room, startles, then smirks at them before continuing on. 

“Um,” says Arthur. 

“You should be pleased,” says Eames.

“Why?”

“Because Robert thinks you’ve just received an excellent blowjob.” 

“Why would I have received it, rather than given it?” Arthur asks. He cannot _believe_ they’re having this conversation. (He can believe they’re having this conversation. Eames seems to be of the mindset that no conversation is worth having unless he can slip at least three sexual innuendos into it. He just can’t believe they’re having this conversation _now_.) 

“Because, sweetheart, you’re about to sing on stage for two hours.” 

“Oh. Right,” says Arthur. He can hardly bring himself to look at Eames, but— “Excellent, really? 

“Of course excellent,” says Eames, his tone mock-affronted. “Do you really think I would give you only sub-par sex?”

Arthur thinks he has been holding up pretty well thus far, but there is really only so much he can take. 

“I need to get changed,” he blurts, then winces, because reminding them both that he’s about to be naked is not exactly helping to change the subject. 

Luckily, Eames doesn’t take the bait. “Carry on, then,” Eames says. 

Arthur carries on. 

  


Arthur and his dancers have just finished the final pre-show huddle. Arthur can feel the nervous energy in his stomach, but his head is clear. 

As they break, rushing toward their entrance places, Eames touches his arm. 

“You’re the best,” Eames says. “Whatever happens.” 

Arthur opens his mouth, closes it, nods, and heads onstage. 

  


Arthur hits every step and every note of ‘Worth a Shot.’ As the final chords of the music fade away, Arthur can’t help turning his head, just a bit, to catch Eames’s eyes as Eames heads backstage to pull on a set piece for ‘Labyrinth.’ Eames winks. 

“Hello, San Francisco,” Arthur calls, looking out over the crowd and walking down the catwalk a little ways. “I am so, so happy to be here with you all tonight. I hope you feel the same.” 

The crescendo of screams is encouraging. 

“I’m just,” he pauses again. “So as you might know, my album is called Within a Dream. And right here, this moment, this is my wildest dream. You all, being here tonight for this concert, are my wildest dream. And this is my first solo concert, so I hope you’ll forgive me if I’m not perfect tonight… just know that you are all perfect to me, by being here…” He clears his throat. “I obviously hope I’ll get to continue making music for many, many years to come, but I think it needs to be said that you guys are the first. And that’s pretty special to me.” 

Arthur turns and starts heading back toward his starting position for the next song. “We’ve got a great show lined up for you all tonight, and I hope you’ll have some fun with it. This one is ‘Labyrinth!’” 

After ‘Labyrinth’ comes ‘Containment,’ and after that, Eames and Marc wheel the piano onstage while Robert positions the bench. 

Eames gives Arthur a tiny nod as he disappears backstage. 

“I’ve been waiting for an interviewer to ask me about this song,” Arthur begins, stretching out his fingers. “But none of them have, so I’m going to tell you tonight: I wrote this song about a year ago, at two a.m. in a hotel lobby in New York City. It’s for my mom, who… yeah. She’s the best. And she’s here tonight. So let’s give it up for all the parents in the audience right now!”

(Cheering.) 

“This is ‘Point Me,’” says Arthur, and begins to play. 

‘Point Me’ is a rest song for Arthur, since he doesn’t have to dance. He’s been so focused on hitting his steps that for the first time all night, he registers that the crowd is singing along.

_The crowd is singing along_.

To his song.

At his concert.

Arthur must have been a saint in some past life. A hero, _and_ a scholar. 

After ‘Point Me” comes the first quick-change, with Arthur stripping to his briefs backstage and tugging on the second-act outfit while basically inhaling half a water bottle. 

His dancers, too, have changed for ‘Merry Chase,’ and Arthur is thankful they’re rushing back onstage, or else he’d probably just stare at Eames’s bare chest for hours. Robert ends up a few inches off from where he’s supposed to be to help Arthur down from the moveable platform they bring on for the song, but Arthur knows his own performance was flawless. 

After the song, as the dancers slip offstage to put shirts on (much to the chagrin of Arthur and, he’s guessing, a fairly sizeable portion of the audience), Arthur says, “Speaking of interviewers and their questions, you might have missed it, but I accidentally came out last fall. Well, less of an accident, more of a snap decision, but one that I’m ultimately happy to have made. So this song is called ‘Elephant in the Room,’ and I think you can make the connections yourselves.” 

And so it goes.

Song after song, dance routine after dance routine, through the two piano songs that finish up the second act and into a few of the covers—and then there’s ‘Inception.’ 

Arthur can’t seem to stop turning his head, just a bit, to keep Eames in his sightline, because in some ways, this is _their song_ and they get to dance to it in front of thousands of people and they did this and Arthur is so, so lucky. 

By the time they reach the end of the encore—‘Gravity’—Arthur is absolutely thrumming.

“Thank you, San Francisco!” he shouts. He resists the urge to use his t-shirt to mop the sweat off his face. He introduces his musicians and they take their bows; then Arthur turns to his dancers, who are arrayed behind him on the stage. 

“Can you believe how incredible they all are?” Arthur asks the crowd, sweeping his arm to encompass the four of them. “Working with them as has been an absolute dream. Give it up for my amazing dancers!” 

The dancers bow, and Arthur is caught between glancing back out to the crowd and drinking in the dazed smile on Eames’s face. 

Arthur slips in the middle of the dancers’ line, between Eames and Marc. On Arthur’s cue, they all bow together. As the dancers move to duck backstage—to leave Arthur for his final, solo bow—Eames brushes a hand along Arthur’s back. 

Arthur thinks it quite possible that he will expire—explode—evaporate from happiness. Nothing could possibly be better than this. 

He takes a deep breath and faces forward, raising one arm and waving. His face aches from smiling so much, but he can’t stop grinning: this is it. This is everything. He’s here. He’s done it. All those people are here for _him_. 

“Thank you, San Francisco! Good night!” 

And then it’s over. 

Arthur is about half a step off stage when Eames envelops him in a hug—a disgusting, sweaty hug—and they’re both exhausted and high on adrenaline so they totter around for a few seconds, off-balance but unwilling to let go. 

“Arthur!” It’s his mom. 

Reluctantly, Arthur lets go of Eames, only to be swooped into another hug.

“Mom, I’m all sweaty,” Arthur complains, but he holds onto her tightly anyway. 

His mom releases him, kissing him on the cheek. “You should be so proud of yourself. I’m so proud of you,” she says. 

Arthur tries not to tear up; Eames is still hovering off to the side. 

His mom turns to Eames. “Hi,” she says. “I’m Arthur’s mom.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Eames says, shaking her hand. “I’m Eames.” 

“Oh, I know,” says Arthur’s mom. “Ariadne gave me the link to your Twitter.” 

Eames catches Arthur’s eye, and they both burst into helpless laughter. Arthur can’t look away; Eames’s eyes are bright and he’s still in the sweat-soaked shirt from the final act and he is the most gorgeous person Arthur has ever seen. 

“C’mon,” says Eames. “You’ve got to go meet fans now.” 

“Right, right,” says Arthur, shaking his head. He turns to his mom. “I’ll see you in a bit, okay? Thanks for coming tonight.” 

Arthur’s mom rolls her eyes. “Where else would I be? I’ll call Ariadne and let her know how it went. You know she’s disappointed she wasn’t able to change her midterm date.” 

“It’s two a.m. in New York, you can’t call her,” Arthur protests. “She should be studying or sleeping.”

“Just for a minute; she made me promise,” Arthur’s mom says. “Go on, now.” 

Later—after fan pictures, and thanking the SF crew, and about a dozen more hugs from his mom, and the bus ride to the hotel—Arthur and Eames are racing to the elevator. Eames wins, but only by a fraction of a second. 

“I’m never going to be able to sleep,” Arthur says as the elevator doors slide open and they step inside. “Just—oh my god, we did that. I had a concert. I could try to wrap my head around it until the next one and I still wouldn’t be any closer to believing it.” 

“Believe it,” says Eames. “You were amazing.”

“You were brilliant.” 

Arthur can’t stop grinning. He feels like he is never going to stop smiling, ever. 

The elevator doors open onto their floor and they step out. 

“Who are you rooming with?” Arthur asks. 

The other dancers and musicians had come back on the first bus, but Arthur had to stay for fan pictures, and Eames had waited with him, making small talk with everyone while they waited for their minute with Arthur. 

“Robert,” says Eames. 

“Come to mine, let’s watch a movie or something,” Arthur says. “And room service. God, I’m starving. Unless you wanted to go out? Some people were talking about going out.” 

Eames shrugs. “We’ve got another show tomorrow night. Probably best to stay in.” 

“Yes, right,” says Arthur, as if that were his rationale all along. 

They both need to shower and change—although Arthur cleaned up a bit for the fan pictures, his hasty efforts in that direction were not enough for a movie night with Eames—so they plan to meet in Arthur’s room in fifteen. Arthur is torn between taking the fastest shower of his life and actually making sure he gets clean. His hands stopped shaking somewhere on the bus ride to the hotel, but— _Eames_. 

_To Ariadne: !!!_

_From Ariadne: !!!_

It’s a testament to their many years of friendship that the two texts suffice. 

Fourteen minutes after they parted in the hallway, there’s a knock on Arthur’s door. 

Arthur, who has absolutely not been peering through the peephole for the past forty-three seconds, opens it. Eames is wearing a loose black t-shirt and gray sweatpants that sit low on his hips. His short hair is still damp, and Arthur wants to run his hands through it. 

“Hi,” he says instead, stepping back to let Eames through. 

“Hi,” says Eames. “You fancy pop star, with a room all to yourself.” 

“Better than both of us having roommates we couldn’t get rid of,” Arthur says. “Now, food?” 

A few minutes later, room service ordered, Eames asks, “Have you checked Twitter yet?” 

“No,” says Arthur. He’s sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed; his phone is charging on the desk and his laptop is still tucked away in his backpack. 

“Are you going to?”

“Do you think I should?” 

“If you like hearing about how hot you are and what an amazing voice you have,” says Eames.

Arthur flushes. “In that order?” 

Eames tilts his head, making a show of checking Arthur out. Arthur tries not to squirm. “Bit of a toss-up, I suppose.” 

Arthur leans back on the bed, grabs one of the pillows, and throws it at Eames. 

“A _throw_ pillow,” Eames crows, tossing it back. 

“You’re the worst,” Arthur informs him. 

Eames shakes his head, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Arthur. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. _Darling_. We were so good. You were so good. That was—” He pauses. 

“That was…?” Arthur prompts after a moment. 

“Would you believe me if I said that was the best night, ever?” Eames asks, his tone light. 

“Better than playing young David Copperfield in the West End?” 

“You’ve read my Wikipedia page,” Eames accuses.

“Literally months ago,” Arthur confirms. 

“Definitely better,” Eames says. “And, just think about it—we get to do this over and over again. We get to have _more_ of this.” 

Eames is grinning and he can’t seem to stand still, and even though Arthur knows Eames is older than him by two years, in that moment, Eames seems the very definition of ‘boyish.’ 

Room service announces itself, after which Arthur has to determine where exactly they’re supposed to consume the food: there’s only one chair at the desk. 

Arthur pulls out his laptop and pats the empty space beside him on the bed; in short, he tries not to overthink the situation. 

“C’mere,” he says, pretending that his stomach—which had finally settled—isn’t threatening to revolt again. “We’ve got so much late-night television to catch up on.” 

Lately, Arthur has been falling asleep almost directly after dinner, which came after business meetings, which came after actual rehearsal, and he suspects Eames hasn’t managed to stay awake all that much later. Tour rehearsals did not become any less draining over time. 

Eames flops onto the bed, then shimmies into a sitting position and settles his plate on his lap. 

“I shall require your insider narration, of course,” says Eames.

“I’ve met them all _once_ ,” says Arthur. 

“You’re not getting out of this,” says Eames. “I want all the dirty details. Their picky dressing room requests, everything.” 

Arthur rolls his eyes, presses ‘play,’ and then they simply… don’t stop watching. 

At some point, Eames stretches out on the bed, propping himself up on one arm. 

At some point, Arthur turns off the overhead lights.

At no point does Arthur ask Eames to leave, and at no point does Eames show any signs of wanting to. 

At some point, they fall asleep. 

  


**@anotherarthur** : Thanks SF for another great night!!! 

**@sylviaknowsbest** : Anybody else notice how Arthur doesn’t really look at any of his dancers except for Eames??? #WithinADreamTour #SF

**@kittykitty67** : ow ow! Eames def takes his job very seriously… so focused if you know what I mean lol 

**@joangray** : @kittykitty67 omg let them BE, can’t I be in one fandom without a gay conspiracy?? 

**@mofftisstoldme** : @joangray you should put that on a t-shirt (& no)

  


Eames falls asleep in Arthur’s room that night, too, this time to a German soap opera Arthur wasn’t even aware could be accessed in the United States. 

They have a day off between the second San Francisco show and the Sacramento one. The trainer Marie found takes Arthur and the dancers out for an afternoon group run, which is enlightening, to say the least. Robert and Marc deck themselves head-to-toe in designer workout gear, while the rest of them opt for basketball shorts and miscellaneous t-shirts. Eames actually wears one of the concert tank-tops, the black one with _Within a Dream_ scrawled in white across the front and the silhouette of an untied tie looped around the neck. _Concert chic_ , Mal called it.

Clothing choices aside, the most important revelation is that the trainer knows what he’s doing, and Arthur will take ‘slightly too enthusiastic about working out’ over ‘enjoys shaming people for not having his same level of athletic ability’ any day.

After the run, Robert corners Arthur and Eames in the hallway of the hotel. 

“So, just to check, I’ll have the room to myself tonight, right?” Robert asks, glancing between them. 

Arthur is an idiot; he’s been so caught up in the rush of touring and Eames that he hasn’t even considered what this must look like to Robert. To their security team, _Jesus_. 

“You aiming to pull tonight, mate?” Eames asks slowly. 

“Yeah. So we’re cool, right?” 

Eames turns to Arthur, raising an eyebrow. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s—yeah,” says Arthur. 

“Great,” says Robert. “I mean, I assumed, but, always good to check.”

“Great,” Eames echoes. “I’ll just shower and get my stuff and… get out of your way.” 

“Great,” says Arthur. His voice sounds faint to his own ears. 

When Eames knocks on his door twenty minutes later, though, all he says is, “As if I want to hear about Robert’s sex life. You up for _EastEnders_ tonight?” 

  


**@anotherarthur** : Sacramento!!! You were awesome. :) 

**@kayleighreigns** : Hottest combination of 5 people ever, and I saw 1d in concert before Zayn left (RIP) #WithinADreamTour 

**@lotts134** : Eames touched Arthur’s shoulder after the bows again!!! sldkfj #WithinADreamTour

**@rosiero** : @lotts134 Because they’re friends, you idiot. It’s totally normal to touch your friends like that 

  


Arthur starts to make himself a list of rules. 

He is not allowed to stare at Eames while he sleeps, because even though Eames’s sleeping face is adorable, Arthur is not a creepy vampire. 

Arthur is also not allowed to ogle Eames if he changes into or out of his pajamas in Arthur’s presence. Eames is ogled by thousands of people every night during the show; Arthur doesn’t get to force that into his time off as well. 

  


**@anotherarthur** : PORTLAND. You didn’t even rain tonight!! Such a fun crowd. 

  


“So, you’ll stay in Arthur’s again tonight, right?” asks Robert, even though Arthur is also standing right there. 

“Portland has clubs?” Eames asks. 

“Hipster bars, at least,” says Robert. 

“Knock yourself out,” says Eames.

“Not literally,” adds Arthur. 

Robert squints. “So… the room is mine tonight.”

“All yours,” says Eames. 

  


**@anotherarthur** : Seattle you were amazing! Thanks for all the awesome signs. 

**@angielee33** : OMG SO I HAD A BACKSTAGE PASS LAST NIGHT

**@angielee33** : AND I GOT TO MEET ARTHUR AND HE WAS SOOO NICE pic.twitter

**@angielee33** : Eames was there too just hanging out, like obviously waiting for Arthur to be done

**@angielee33** : E talked with some of us while we were waiting for our turn with Arthur and !!! pic.twitter 

**@angielee33** : So so so charming and HOT I don’t know how Arthur keeps his hands off him on stage

**@angielee33** : lol that’s right he doesn’t (I mean not completely but you’re NOT SUBTLE BOYS) 

  


Eames stops putting his stuff in the room he nominally shares with Robert altogether. Arthur makes sure he gets an extra copy of the room key. 

After that, nobody else tries to sit next to Arthur on the tour bus unless they have succinct business matters to discuss. He’d be offended, except, well, that’s Eames’s spot. 

  


**@anotherarthur** : Wow, Vancouver—feel like a proper international singer now! 

**@sneakersnsmores** : Dang, was waiting for @anotherarthur to be all ‘proper chuffed to be in Canada!’

**@keelyt** : @sneakersnsmores I know, where is the accent/vocab slippage?? I live in anticipation of Arthur cursing the bloody traffic & the sodding airport security lines. 

  


They’ve just arrived at their Denver hotel when Ariadne calls. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Arthur asks, taking his hotel key from Dom with a quick nod of thanks. 

“Scrolled through your Twitter mentions lately?” Ari asks. 

“A little,” says Arthur. “Not much. It’s busy.” He catches up to Eames at the elevator. 

“Ariadne?” Eames whispers. Arthur nods. 

“What about tumblr?” 

“Not even a little,” says Arthur. 

“Okay, I’m going to send you some stuff,” says Ariadne. “Try to stay calm.” 

“Excuse me?” If there is anything guaranteed to make a person not-calm, telling them to stay calm is definitely it. 

“It’s totally fine, all right? You shouldn’t change what you’re doing. I just thought you should know.” 

“Know _what_?” Arthur snaps. 

Eames is frowning at him, concerned, but all Arthur can do is shrug. He has no idea what Ariadne is going on about. 

Eames leads the way down the hall to their room. Dom hasn’t bothered to switch Arthur’s reservations to doubles, so there’s still just the one bed. Arthur can’t bring himself to correct him. Anyway, king-sized beds are _enormous_ , and neither of them has a problem with staying on their own side. (Arthur knows this is for the best—definitely, absolutely for the best—but there is possibly a tiny part of him that is disappointed about not waking up curled next to Eames every morning.) 

“Just some stuff your fans have put together,” says Ariadne. 

“Some stuff?” 

Eames opens the door and Arthur immediately crosses to the window. Not a bad view of the parking lot, really. 

“Gifsets from footage people have taken of the concerts,” Ariadne continues. 

“Okay…” 

Eames turns the TV on, but keeps the volume low. 

“It’s—they’re,” Ariadne starts to giggle.

“ _What_ ,” says Arthur. 

“They’re compilations of all the times you and Eames are looking at each other. Or touching unnecessarily. Or just basically acting utterly besotted.” 

“Fuck,” says Arthur.

Eames turns away from the TV to shoot him another worried look. 

“That’s really, really not good,” says Arthur. “Shit.” 

“Should I go?” Eames whispers. 

“It’s your room, too,” says Arthur, holding the phone away from his mouth a bit, because it _is_.

“I’ll go get us some ice,” say Eames. 

“Is Eames there?” Ariadne asks. 

“Thanks,” says Arthur to Eames, and brings the phone closer again. “Not anymore.” 

“What did you mean, ‘it’s your room, too’?” 

“We share a room,” says Arthur. 

“They’re making you share?” 

“Not technically,” Arthur hedges. “It just sort of happened.” 

“You and Eames just accidentally became roommates,” Ariadne says flatly. 

“Something like that.” Arthur winces. “Look, nobody can go to bed right after a concert, even though we’re always exhausted, but—too much adrenaline and everything, right? So Eames comes over, we order food and watch TV… and then we fall asleep. And it just kept kind of happening, so. Now we share.” 

Ariadne is quiet for a long moment. Finally, she says, “How cute is he in the morning?” 

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “So cute. Unbelievably cute. Unbearably cute. He should be illegal.” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“And he only snores a little and he never hogs the blankets, so—”

“What do you mean, he never hogs the blankets? Arthur Cohen, are you sharing a _bed_ with this boy?” 

“Yes,” Arthur confesses. 

“For over a week,” says Ariadne. 

“Yes.” 

“And you’re not his boyfriend.” 

“There’s no touching! One hundred percent fair-trade certified, organic, platonic bed-sharing,” Arthur says. “I’m not a creep. Oh god, is this creepy? Am I taking advantage? He slept in his pants last night—his underpants, I mean, he calls them pants, but anyway—I swear I don’t mean it like that. I mean, I do, but.”

“You’d still want to be friends with him even if you knew nothing else would ever come of it,” says Ariadne.

“Yes,” says Arthur. “Yes, and—nothing _is_ ever going to come of it.” 

“You know,” says Ariadne. “It’s funny you say there’s no touching happening in the room, because—”

“Maybe a little,” Arthur blurts. 

“Do tell.” 

“He fell asleep on my shoulder last night,” says Arthur. “In the middle of an episode. But he woke up when I went to close the laptop and, like, moved over and everything.” 

“You’re dating,” says Ariadne. 

“We’re _not_ ,” says Arthur. 

“You touch all the time on stage!” 

“We do _not_!” 

“I have several dozen gifsets that say otherwise,” says Ariadne. “Literally, whenever you pass each other, there’s something. At the very least a longing gaze. It’s adorable.”

“It’s _awful_.” Arthur sinks onto the bed. “I’m so obvious. Help me.” 

“Ask him out,” says Ariadne promptly. 

“No,” Arthur groans. “Help me not be so obvious, Jesus. What if he finds those?” 

“The evidence is at least as damning for him,” says Ariadne. 

“Eames is naturally flirty,” says Arthur. “He’s a flirt. It’s his Britishness, or something.” 

Ariadne snorts. “It’s definitely not his Britishness. And he doesn’t go around giving those looks to any of the other dancers; the Internet has checked.” 

“Well,” says Arthur. “Well. Even if— _if_ —he was flirting, that doesn’t mean he wants to do anything about it. That doesn’t mean he wants to _date_. Maybe he just likes flirting. Which is completely fine. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to date _me_ , on account of the whole, you know, thing where Mal thinks it would be delightful if I got stalkers.” 

“She said that?” 

“Apparently there are these things called ‘update accounts’? I don’t know. I don’t want people to know where I am all the time. That seems reasonable,” says Arthur. 

“Don’t let her set stalkers on you,” says Ariadne. 

“I’m working on it,” Arthur agrees. 

There’s a tapping on the door, and a moment later, Eames enters, holding a full ice bucket. He winces when he notices that Arthur is still on the phone.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I’ll just—”

Arthur shakes his head. “It’s fine. We’re just finishing up.”

“Oh, are we?” says Ariadne. 

“Yes,” says Arthur. 

“Talk to Eames,” says Ariadne. 

She hangs up on him. She likes having the last word. 

Arthur lets the phone fall next to him on the bed. 

“Everything all right, darling?” Eames asks cautiously, setting the ice bucket on the desk. 

“Yup,” says Arthur. 

Eames raises his eyebrows. “You never say ‘yup.’”

“I’m expanding my vocabulary.” 

“Uh-huh.” Eames settles in the chair across from him. “Want to talk about it?”

Arthur makes a face.

“Okay,” says Eames. “You’ve got an hour or so before your radio interviews. Want to take a walk or something?” He swivels in the chair. “It’d be nice if we could actually see the places we go a bit, instead of just going from bus to hotel to radio station to venue to hotel to bus to next hotel, you know?” 

“A walk sounds nice,” says Arthur. 

  


Arthur tries to stop himself from reaching out to Eames, from leaning into Eames, from _looking_ at Eames at the concert that night, and—it sucks. It just _sucks_ , because Eames is his _best friend_ (after Ariadne), and they get to do this magical thing together, and now Arthur is overthinking every interaction between them because he doesn’t want Eames to discover his stupid, unnecessary, enormous crush via tumblr gifsets. 

He feels bad for the crowd, because he knows he’s a little distracted in the song intros, because he isn’t letting himself use Eames as some sort of—grounding mechanism. Which definitely isn’t part of Eames’s job description and Arthur needs to get over himself and start acting like a professional pronto. 

This is his job, his dream job, and he can’t afford to become distracted by some hot British guy who thinks bus rides should be passed by watching Stargate SG-1 or looking up puppy gifs. It’s not even just that he can’t afford it: his fans deserve better.

“You okay?” Eames asks, after Arthur appears in the green room after his final bow. 

“Yup,” says Arthur, and ducks away to change into a clean t-shirt. 

For the first time since tour started, Eames leaves the venue with the rest of the dancers. 

_It’s better this way_ , Arthur tells himself, and nods at security to let in the first group of backstage pass-holders. 

Once he’s on his way back to the hotel, he checks his phone. 

_From Ariadne: :-( :-(_

_From Ariadne: What did you do?? The Internet is sad._

_From Ariadne: You look sad._

_From Ariadne: I mean you’re smiling but you look sad. Your movements aren’t as natural._

_From Ariadne: You did NOT try to stop yourself from interacting with Eames on stage_

_From Ariadne: Arthur you IDIOT_

Arthur rests his head against the window, typing and deleting and re-typing replies.

_From Ariadne: I can see the little typing symbol you know_

_From Ariadne: Spit it out_

_To Ariadne: It was so hard. And it sucked. And the fans deserved better, and I feel terrible. Happy?_

_From Ariadne: YOU deserve better_

_From Ariadne: Might have to fly out there and kick Eames’s ass_

_To Ariadne: Eames hasn’t done anything wrong._

_From Ariadne: He’s neglecting his best friend duties. Our job is to make sure you’re being nice to yourself_

_To Ariadne: That’s not even relevant in this situation._

_From Ariadne: Your happiness is always relevant_

_From Ariadne: And you weren’t happy tonight and your fans caught on and they WANT you to be happy. They don’t know you but they’re there for you, you know?? They’re happy when you’re happy. So let yourself be happy_

_To Ariadne: You should become a motivational speaker. Or a therapist._

_From Ariadne: I’m almost halfway done with a very expensive architecture degree, so, I don’t think so_

_To Ariadne: It’s late where you are. Go to bed. I can deal with my own problems._

_From Ariadne: That’s sweet. But you really can’t, and you don’t have to. HELLO I’M STILL YOUR BEST FRIEND_

_To Ariadne: Just got to hotel._

_From Ariadne: Please tell me you’re not going to avoid Eames_

_To Ariadne: I’m not going to avoid Eames._

_To Ariadne: Promise._

_From Ariadne: Okay. Good luck. I’ll still fly out and kick his ass any time you need it_

_To Ariadne: He says ‘arse,’ you know._

_From Ariadne: Either way_

When he enters the hotel room, Eames is sitting on the edge of the bed, biting his lip. 

“Hi,” says Arthur.

“I can go,” Eames says quickly. 

Arthur frowns. “Why would you go?” 

Eames won’t look at him; instead, he’s squinting down at his hands. “Did I do something? Are you… mad at me?” 

“No,” says Arthur immediately. “What would I even be mad at you about?” 

Eames shrugs. 

“I had a weird day,” says Arthur, his tone apologetic. He knows it’s not enough. 

“You’ve been kind of… off, since your phone call with Ariadne,” says Eames, his voice soft. “Is she okay? Is your mum okay?” 

“Yeah,” says Arthur. He sits down next to Eames. “It’s nothing.” 

“Obviously not.” 

“I just need—needed—to process it a bit,” says Arthur. “Sorry. I’m fine. I’ll stop acting weird.” 

Finally, Eames meets his gaze. “You can act however you need to, or want to, or whatever, however you feel like acting. You don’t need to pretend with me.” 

Arthur kind of wants to cry. “Thanks,” he says. He glances around the room. “Have you eaten yet?”

Eames shakes his head. “I was waiting for you… and if you didn’t, um, want me to keep staying with you, I didn’t want to…” he trails off. 

“Of course I want you here,” Arthur forces himself to say. “I mean, as long as I’m a better roommate than Robert. If it turns out I’m not, then by all means, feel free—”

“I don’t think that’s happening anytime soon, sweetheart,” says Eames, and Arthur feels himself relax a bit at the endearment. 

“Okay,” says Arthur. “Let’s eat.” 


	6. Chapter 6

From Denver, they head to Salt Lake City. 

“Let’s go out tonight,” Eames says, on the way back from the concert. 

(The concert during which Arthur probably over-compensated for not looking at Eames for all of the Denver show. Whoops.) 

“Okay,” says Arthur. He should have thought of this earlier; of course Eames is bored. Eames is from _London_. Of course Eames doesn’t want to hide in a hotel room with Arthur every night. “You know I’m not twenty-one, right? So it’ll have to be someplace that won’t care.” 

“I didn’t mean a club, necessarily,” says Eames. “Is clubbing even allowed here? Isn’t this, like, the Mormon state?” 

Arthur does a quick Google search on his phone. “There do appear to be clubs here, if you wanted.” 

“Maybe another time,” says Eames. “The first time I get you in a club, I want it to be a good one.” 

“Um,” says Arthur. 

“We can just wander, or something. Will security kill us if we just walk around?” 

The bus pulls up to the hotel, and they enter through the back, just in case. 

Arthur checks his phone again. “It’ll be almost twelve-thirty by the time we head out.” 

“We’re driving to Nevada tomorrow,” says Eames. “We can sleep on the bus.” 

“Okay,” says Arthur. 

They shower and change; Arthur pulls on a Lakers hoodie over his t-shirt. 

On their way out of the lobby, they run into Dom, who squints at them. He squints specifically at Arthur’s hoodie. 

“The others aren’t ready yet,” he says.

“We’re not going with them,” says Arthur. 

“Where are you going, then?” Dom asks, his eyes squinting further. It’s not all that intimidating. 

“Just a walk,” says Eames. “Fresh air, et cetera.” 

“Whatever,” says Dom. He fixes Eames with a look. “Don’t get him drunk. Or if you do, do it somewhere there won’t be pictures. He has an image clause, and Mal will murder me if she finds out I’ve facilitated a breach of contract.” 

“Got it,” says Arthur, and tugs the sleeve of Eames’s sweatshirt to drag him out the door. “All right,” Arthur says once they’re outside. “Where to?” 

Eames takes a deep breath. “Let’s get lost.” 

So they do, or at least as lost as it’s possible to be with smartphones awaiting orders in their pockets. They’re not completely stupid: they stick to main roads, well-lighted paths. 

After about twenty minutes of mostly silence, Eames asks, “What did Dom mean, about the image clause?” 

“Oh,” says Arthur. “It’s part of my contract. Like, what kind of image I’m supposed to maintain, for my brand. So no getting drunk in public, that sort of thing. Definitely no drug usage—no documentable drug usage, anyway. Which isn’t an issue, because I don’t. If I did one-night stands, discreet only.” He shrugs. 

“Do you?” asks Eames.

“Do I what?”

“One-night stands?” 

“Wouldn’t you have noticed?” Arthur asks. 

“Not before tour,” says Eames. 

“Well, no,” says Arthur. “I mean, I don’t. I’m not really interested in that.” 

“In sex, or one-night stands?”

“The latter,” says Arthur. At least, Arthur assumes he is interested in sex. On a theoretical level, he definitely is. As a practical matter, he has never actually exchanged orgasms with anyone. 

Eames hums. “My younger sister’s a fan, you know.” 

“I know,” says Arthur, because Eames made him call Elizabeth in February, to wish her a happy birthday. 

“I mean, before I got the job,” says Eames. “She watched you on _The Voice_ and everything.” 

This is new information. 

“She sent me that interview. When you came out. And you said that everyone on the inside knew. Was that part of your image clause, too?” Eames’s voice sounds so sad. Or maybe that’s just the effect of the night, the empty streets, their own tiredness. 

“Not really. Kind of,” says Arthur. “It just… I didn’t bring it up, in public. I didn’t want to. And I told them, on _The Voice_ , that I wasn’t going to let them market me as ‘the gay one.’ And after… the plan was for them to control how it happened. The coming out, I mean. But they were taking too long.” 

“Fucking wankers,” says Eames. 

“It wasn’t… it wasn’t bad, or anything. I mean, it was a bit annoying, but it’s not like I enjoy talking about my personal life in interviews anyway, and once _The Voice_ was over and I was in the studio, I really wasn’t spending a lot of time in front of cameras. Plus, it’s not like I had a boyfriend I had to hide. There are dozens of singers who have been really, really forcibly closeted by their managements, in damaging, disgusting ways. That isn’t what happened to me,” Arthur assures him. 

“Still,” says Eames. 

“Yeah,” Arthur says. He kicks at a loose pebble. 

They wander into some sort of park. They pass a large tree, and the moonlight illuminates a set of initials carved into the bark. 

“If I wasn’t worried about hurting the tree, we could do us,” says Eames. “On this day, the ninth of April—”

“Wait. What?” says Arthur, stopping in his tracks. It can’t be.

“Just a joke,” says Eames quickly. “You know, we were here and all.”

“No, the date,” Arthur says. 

“It’s the ninth, isn’t it? It’s past midnight.” 

“Shit, shit,” says Arthur. He sits down on the damp grass, pulling out his phone, frantically going through his messages to his mom that day. Yesterday. “Fuck.” 

“What’s wrong?” Eames crouches beside him. “Darling, talk to me.” 

Arthur tilts his head back, squeezes his eyes shut. The night air is still around them; the park quiet and empty. “It’s April ninth.” He takes a deep breath. “On April eighth, 2003, my dad died in Baghdad. In the Iraq War.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames says. 

“And I didn’t call my mom today. Yesterday. We texted about—fucking taxes, and she wished me good luck on the show, like she always does, and she sent me this hug emoji first thing in the morning, and I just thought she was being, you know, a mom. I _forgot_.” 

“You’re allowed,” says Eames.

“I’m _not_ ,” says Arthur. “He’s my dad. And he died when I was really little, and I don’t get to just forget that because I’m some barely famous person now. I don’t want to be that kind of person.” 

And he’d thought he’d had such a good day. It had been such a good day. 

“Isn’t it better, a little, that you’re not dwelling on it? That you can still go out and live your life, and be this amazing, incredible, _brave_ person?” says Eames. 

“Maybe?” says Arthur. “But my mom. It’s so much worse for her, I know it is, and I didn’t even call her. I didn’t—nothing. I should have been with her, I should have at least flown her out, something.” He draws his knees up to his chest. 

“I’m sure she understands,” says Eames. 

“She shouldn’t have to,” says Arthur. “She deserves better.”

“Sweetheart, you’re the best son I’ve ever met, and I went to a lot of different boarding schools, so I’ve met a lot of guys. You give her a shout-out at every concert.” 

“That’s _nothing_ ,” says Arthur. “That doesn’t count. That’s like when parents bring back random souvenirs from business trips to bribe their kids. That doesn’t make up for the parents not being there.” 

“Some parents don’t have a choice,” says Eames gently. 

“I know,” Arthur whispers, a few traitorous tears spilling down his cheeks, and then Eames is pulling him in for a hug. Arthur lets himself be pulled, be held. 

“You can call your mum in the morning,” says Eames. 

“I know. I will,” says Arthur, his head tucked into Eames’s shoulder. 

“You’re allowed to feel things, you know. And you’re allowed to mess up. Even though you don’t need to feel bad about this,” says Eames. 

“Okay,” says Arthur, even though he doesn’t fully believe it. It still feels nice to say, like maybe, someday, he would. They sit in silence for another minute, Eames’s hand rubbing soothing circles on Arthur’s back. “I guess this isn’t exactly what you had in mind when you said you wanted to go out,” says Arthur eventually. “Sorry.” 

Eames sighs, and Arthur winces, expecting him to end the hug, but instead… Instead, Eames kisses the top of his head. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, love,” he says. “I wanted to get out of hotels, and here we are. A very lovely park. Or, I imagine it’s lovely. A bit too dark to tell.” 

Arthur laughs wetly against his shoulder. “We’ll be in England in June, for the festivals. You can take me out properly then.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m legal there, anyway,” says Arthur. 

“Bloody Americans and your ridiculous drinking laws,” Eames agrees. “Will Mal get mad if I take you to gay clubs?” 

“No,” says Arthur. “’Long as I’m not seen leaving with anybody but you, it’s fine.”

“Is that so?” Eames teases, but his voice is a little softer when he repeats, “Nobody but me.” 

Arthur extracts himself from the hug. “Because the public knows you. _The Sun_ can’t exactly go around calling you a sordid one-night stand.”

“I think you’ll find that _The Sun_ does whatever it pleases, journalistic integrity be damned,” says Eames. 

“And wouldn’t we be leaving together, anyway? Because we’d go together, because you’d be showing me the place,” Arthur continues. “And we’d have to go back to the same hotel regardless. Unless you have a flat in London. And then you’d stay there, I guess. Or—if you’re bringing somebody home. Of course.” 

“Arthur,” Eames sighs. 

Some clouds have drifted over the moon, and it’s too dark to make out Eames’s expression. 

“Darling,” Eames says, his voice a little stronger. “I’m not going to be taking anybody back from a club except for you.” 

“Oh,” says Arthur. 

“Do you know why?” Eames asks. 

“No,” says Arthur, but his heart starts to beat faster. 

“Because when I call you ‘darling,’ and ‘sweetheart,’ and—and ‘love,’ I mean them. I mean all of them. I want to be with you. I want us to be together,” says Eames. 

“Oh,” says Arthur. _Oh_.

There is _so much_ to feel—elation, confusion, jubilance, doubt—but Eames is waiting for a response—Eames has _waited_ for him—and there could only ever, ever be one answer—

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” Eames sounds confused. 

In retrospect, “okay” was probably neither the clearest nor the most romantic reply.

“Let’s be together,” says Arthur. He reaches out and finds Eames’s hand, squeezes it. After all, it’s just the two of them: the real world doesn’t get a say in this moment. Arthur won’t let it.

“Are we dreaming? Am I dreaming?” asks Eames. 

“Definitely not,” says Arthur, grinning now. He tugs at Eames’s hand, pulling him a little closer. And then Eames is close enough to kiss—so Arthur kisses him. 

“I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you outside the elevator,” Eames confesses.

“Me too,” says Arthur. 

“You arse, I asked you if you were single!” Eames exclaims. 

“We were running late for a meeting,” Arthur protests. 

“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” Eames says, shaking his head. “Darling.” 

Arthur kisses him again. 

They kiss for a long time, sitting on the wet grass, until eventually Arthur rests his head on Eames’s shoulder and says, “We should go back.” 

“We should,” Eames agrees. “You’re shivering.” 

“I am also about to fall asleep on you,” says Arthur. 

“Are my kisses boring you?” Eames stands, tugging Arthur up with him. 

“Ask me when I’m awake,” Arthur says. He turns his head to kiss Eames’s cheek, just because he can, but ends up kissing some awkward part of his jaw instead. Oh well. He tried. 

“C’mon then,” says Eames. “Can’t have the world wondering where their pop star is.” 

“Not theirs,” Arthur murmurs, his eyelids drooping shut, even as they continue to walk. “Yours.” 

“Mine,” Eames agrees, lacing their fingers together. 

Somehow, they make it back to the hotel and stumble through brushing their teeth and finding dry clothes. There’s a moment of awkwardness as they climb into bed, but then Eames asks, “Cuddling, yes or no? Or perhaps something to try in the future when we’re not about to pass out?” 

“Yes cuddling,” says Arthur, and scoots a little closer to Eames underneath the covers. 

There’s some fumbling as they work out a spooning position that will actually enable them to sleep, but soon they’re both comfortable. 

“In the morning, love,” Eames says, his words slurring with exhaustion. “Remind me this wasn’t a dream.” 

“I will,” Arthur says. “Go to sleep, Eames.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is Castillon02 Appreciation Day! This past weekend marked a full year of our beta-author relationship, and I am so very lucky and thankful that she has continuously agreed to work with me. She is both very brilliant and very patient, and deserves much love. *showers her with daisies*

Despite their late night, Arthur wakes up before their alarm. 

He and Eames aren’t touching, but they’re both curled on their sides, facing each other, and Arthur allows himself to break his ‘do not stare at Eames’s adorable sleeping face’ rule for about a minute. 

Arthur showers, then returns to the main room to write Eames a quick note. 

_E —_   
_Stepped out to call my mom._   
_Also, you weren’t dreaming._   
_A_

It’s even earlier in California, but Arthur’s mom puts her shifts into Google calendar, and Arthur knows she’ll be up by now. He tucks himself into the stairwell of the top floor of the hotel and calls her. 

“Arthur?” his mom answers almost immediately. “Is everything all right?” 

“I didn’t call yesterday,” says Arthur. “I forgot. I’m so, so sorry.” 

“Oh, honey,” says his mom. “It’s all right. I’m all right. Are you all right?” 

“I guess,” says Arthur. “Yes. But I should have called.” 

“I’m all right,” his mom repeats. 

“Was someone with you?” 

“For a bit. You know how it is, sometimes you just need to be alone.” 

“Okay,” says Arthur. 

“You’re in D.C. in July, right?” his mom says. “I can fly out. We can go to Arlington together. It’s been a while.” 

“Yes,” says Arthur, trying to keep his voice steady. “Let’s do that.” 

There’s a short pause, and then his mom asks, “Was someone with _you_?” 

“Yeah,” says Arthur. He sits down on the top step. 

“Eames?” 

“Yeah.” There’s a smile tugging across his lips, and Arthur is sure his mom can hear it in his voice. “We might be, um… We might be.” 

“He seems like a nice boy,” says Arthur’s mom. “Does he make you happy?” 

“Yeah,” he whispers, even though there’s no one around to hear. 

“Well, then,” says his mom. “We’ll have to spend some time together, the three of us, next time I’m at one of your shows—or when you’re back before England, I suppose. I can’t believe you didn’t properly introduce us back when you were both in L.A.! I’ve got to run now, but we can talk more later. Tell Eames I say ‘hi,’ okay?” 

“Will do,” says Arthur. 

“You’re not playing tonight, are you?”

“Just driving today,” Arthur confirms.

“That’s right. Get some rest. I love you,” his mom says. 

“Love you, too.” 

When Arthur gets back to their room, Eames is awake and dressed, sitting in the desk chair and fiddling with his phone. 

“Good morning,” he says. 

“Good morning,” says Arthur, trying not to laugh. 

Eames holds up Arthur’s note. “For a minute, there, I thought you’d run out on me, love.” 

Arthur shakes his head and sits on the edge of the bed. 

“Good talk with your mum?” Eames asks. 

“Yeah,” says Arthur. “Thanks for… you know, last night. Being there.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” says Eames. “Just like you didn’t have to apologize. I’m your—” he stops. 

“Ariadne calls you my boyfriend,” Arthur ventures. 

“Is that what you want me to be?” Eames asks carefully. 

Arthur buries his head in his hands. Possibly he is not mature enough for adult, define-the-relationship talks. “Yes. If you want to be,” he says, his voice muffled by his fingers. 

“I would like that very much,” says Eames. “How much time do we have before we need to get on the bus?” 

Arthur checks his phone. “Fifteen minutes.” 

“Would you be opposed to spending the majority of that time snogging your boyfriend?” 

Arthur laughs. “No.” 

(In the end, they are only two minutes late, and they still beat Nash.) 

  


Eames falls asleep about an hour into the drive, so Arthur texts Ari. He’s pretty sure she’s at lunch. 

_To Ariadne: Okay, you can call him my boyfriend now._

_From Ariadne: !!!_

_From Ariadne: FINALLY_

_From Ariadne: Tell me everything_

Arthur does. 

_From Ariadne: 1) You’re adorable and I can’t wait to meet Eames_

_From Ariadne: 2) You seriously couldn’t have come up with a better spot than a random-ass park in Salt Lake City???_

_From Ariadne: Seriously what are you going to do for anniversaries? It’s not like you’d really want to go BACK there_

_From Ariadne: Literally any other city on tour up until now would have been acceptable_

_To Ariadne: I think Utah… ians (??) would be offended._

_From Ariadne: I had a bad experience in their airport, remember? My grudges hold no bounds_

_To Ariadne: Okay, but hasn’t the city slightly redeemed itself now?_

_From Ariadne: No, you’ve just proved how useless you are at the whole getting-together thing_

_To Ariadne: I GOT THE GUY._

_From Ariadne: You did. Taylor Swift should write a song about it. I’m very happy for you_

_From Ariadne: REMEMBER—SAFE SEX_

_To Ariadne: Yes mum_

_From Ariadne: MUM. Really, Arthur?_

_From Ariadne: I have to go to class now, but don’t think we’re done talking about this_

_To Ariadne: I wouldn’t dream of it._

  


It’s supposed to be a six-hour drive from Salt Lake City to Las Vegas, but they’re plagued by traffic accidents and construction, and one of the buses gets a flat, and overall it’s a very good thing there isn’t a show that night. 

There’s not a lot of privacy on a tour bus, but there is a little back room, and Arthur pulls Eames into it after the third road closure notice. 

“What’s this, then?” Eames asks, once the flimsy door is shut behind them. 

Arthur shrugs. “I just felt like I hadn’t really seen you all day.”

“We’ve been sitting next to each other almost the whole day,” says Eames.

“We haven’t been _alone_ all day,” Arthur says.

“I’d better call _People_. Or more directly—Dear Twitter: my boyfriend is delightful and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise,” says Eames. 

Arthur, who was reaching out to kiss him, stops. “You can’t.” 

“It was a joke, darling,” says Eames. “I’m obviously not going to call _People_.” 

“I mean. Shit,” says Arthur. He sits down on the little couch. 

Eames sits next to him, but makes no move to touch him.

_Nice going, Arthur_ , he thinks. 

“Can we keep this to ourselves, for a little while?” Arthur asks. “I mean, not from our families or any of that, and I guess my management probably needs to know sooner rather than later, but the general public. It’s so new and—”

“Are you planning on getting sick of me?” Eames asks. Arthur can’t read his tone. 

“Of course not,” says Arthur, and reaches out to grasp Eames’s hand. “Can’t we have a little time where it’s just us, first?” 

“Of course, love,” says Eames. “Of course. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.” 

Arthur collapses a little into Eames, resting his head on Eames’s shoulder. “You know the terrible Denver concert?”

“Yeah?” Eames tucks an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. 

“Ariadne told me about a bunch of gifsets that I guess my fans have put together. Like, of us and how we interact on stage. I didn’t realize I was being so obvious and—it wasn’t for them, it was for us, and I didn’t know what to do about that, and I wasn’t sure if you’d seen any of it, and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Arthur says. 

“That makes sense,” says Eames. “I like how we interact on stage, Denver not included, obviously. Do you like it? Are you comfortable with it? I can try to stop…” 

“Please don’t,” says Arthur. “Denver was shit and I don’t want to repeat that.” 

“I agree,” Eames laughs, and presses another quick kiss to the top of his head. 

“And also—if we told everyone—there’s going to be so much scrutiny. Like, the instant I forget a lyric they’re going to say it’s because you’re distracting me, and our every movement is going to be analyzed to speculate about our sex life, and I don’t really want that. I really don’t want that,” says Arthur. 

“Okay,” says Eames. 

“Are you sure?” Arthur presses. 

“I think your concerns are valid,” says Eames, “and we both like what we’ve been doing so far, so let’s just keep it that way.” 

Arthur snuggles a little closer to Eames. He’s practically in his lap. “I feel like we should be featured in one of those awful health class videos, like, how to have open communication with your partner.” 

“Better than the alternative,” says Eames. “Anything else of import you wanted to discuss?” 

“Nah, I think I’m good,” says Arthur. 

“Good,” says Eames. “Because I haven’t been able to properly snog my boyfriend since we got on this bloody bus, and here we are, with a door and everything.” 

“You’re on,” says Arthur. 

  


Keeping his hands off of Eames in the Las Vegas concert is harder than Arthur expected. Eames is just _there_ , sweaty and gorgeous and _moving_ , and Marie choreographed such that the dancers do most of the moves that Mal thinks are too racy for Arthur, so the whole affair is rather torturous. In a good way, not a Denver way, but torture nonetheless. 

“Fuck,” says Eames, tugging Arthur into a kiss as soon as they’re both offstage. The crew all have rock-solid NDAs, so Arthur isn’t worried about a leak. 

“I think we may need to rethink our concert strategy,” Arthur agrees between kisses. 

  


They play a handful of shows in the southwest before recommencing the slow crawl eastward. It’s a whirlwind of concerts and interviews and fan meet-and-greets and always, always Eames, in their hotel room or the backroom of the bus or Arthur’s dressing room, ready with a laugh and a kiss and a _darling_.

It’s at the third Texas show that Eames finally hits on a way to engineer legitimate contact during the performances.

  


**@anotherarthur** : Thanks for a great night, Houston! 

**@TXpride777** : Anybody else notice the choreo changes tonight? Eames was on piano-bench duty #WithinADreamTour

**@ellieelle** : @TXpride777 I KNOW!!! The video is super blurry but at 0:17 you can see maybe some sort of hand touch then [video]

**@ettapark** : Leave @anotherarthur and @eamesss alone. You’re all disgusting and delusional. Why do you have to ship everything? 

  


“I feel like I haven’t slept in a year,” Arthur says to Ariadne over Skype, the night after the Houston concert. It’s a rest day, but the “rest” only applied to his voice and body: “rest” days are mostly devoted to handling business and crossing the vast distances between major U.S. cities—in this case, Houston and Kansas City. Even Eames is up on the roof, on a call with his agent. 

“Me neither,” says Ariadne. “I spend all day in class, and then all night doing homework and checking up on your concerts.” 

“About that,” says Arthur. 

“I’m not going to stop stalking your mentions,” Ariadne protests.

“I don’t want you to stop,” says Arthur. “Come on tour with me, this summer.” 

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” says Arthur. “Management will hire you to do PR stuff. Your tumblr stalking will be paid time.” 

“ _Seriously_?” 

“Please say yes,” Arthur begs. “You know I’m terrible at social media and I really can’t afford to be and you always know what’s happening…” 

“Yes,” says Ariadne. 

“Really?”

“Duh, of course I’ll come on tour with you! You didn’t even have to ask,” Ariadne says.

“Well, but, I thought you would do an architecture internship again,” says Arthur, starting to frown. As much as he wants Ari with him on tour, he doesn’t want to derail her career. 

“I did one last summer.” Ariadne shrugs, the motion made disjointed by the shitty hotel wifi. “It’s not every year my best friend is on tour. My résumé can handle it.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Are _you_ sure?” 

“I’ll have management email you with details later this week,” says Arthur.

Ariadne wrinkles her nose. “ _Management_.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” says Arthur. “They handle the contracts. I stand on stage and look pretty.”

“Arthur,” says Ariadne firmly. “You do more than that. They wouldn’t be there if all you were was a pretty face.” 

  


**@anotherarthur** : Trying to come up with a “not in Kansas anymore” joke… nothing’s coming, but it’s going to be a great night in Kansas City, MO!

  


**@countryxpop** : EAMES AND ROBERT SWITCHED PLACES IN WORTH A SHOT & MERRY CHASE OMFG YOU TAP THAT ARTHUR

**@arthurluv** : I CAN’T BELIEVE I SAW THIS WITH MY OWN EYES [video] #KansasCity #WorthAShot

**@arthurluv** : MERRY CHASE CHOREO CHANGES: [video] #KansasCity #MerryChase

**@arthuraesthetic** : A/E IS A GO?!?! #merrychaseiscanon

**@mplsbabe** : Kansas City you were #blessed so jealous 

  


“Your fandom knows,” Eames says on the bus ride to Omaha, the morning after the Kansas City concert. 

Eames isn’t even performing with them in Omaha—he’s going to New York for two days for some modeling work—but he decided to come with them anyway and catch a flight out of Omaha so they could have a few more hours together. 

(Arthur is trying not to think about the fact that this will be his first concert without Eames. He’s happy that Eames is building his own career, he is. He’ll miss him, that’s all.) 

“Knows…?” Arthur prods. They’re holed up in the little back room again, so Arthur is more or less lying on top of Eames. 

“About us.” 

“They don’t know about us,” says Arthur. “They think they do, that’s all. And not even all of them, just some of them. So _some_ of them _want_ to know about us. Anyway, _People_ won’t pick up the story until there’s confirmation from one of our teams, and Mal agrees we should keep it quiet for now.” 

“Oh, does she?” Eames says. There’s something a little dark, maybe bitter, in his voice. Eames doesn’t like Mal very much. Arthur’s pretty sure it’s because of the whole coming-out debacle, even though that was before Eames ever met Arthur. 

“Well, I told her we wanted to, and she agreed to help,” says Arthur. The conversation may have been a little more complicated, but at that point Arthur was focused on the end result. 

“Mm,” says Eames. “I guess I just don’t see the point, since they basically know anyway. I mean, they still watch our every move onstage, even though we’ve never confirmed anything.” 

(There are, indeed, thousands of tweets Arthur has left unanswered, all of which are along the lines of, _are you dating Eames??? Are you and Eames in love???_ ) 

“It’s private,” Arthur insists. “Our relationship is _ours_.” 

“Of course,” says Eames, but his tone is flat. 

Arthur sits up. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” says Eames. 

Arthur crosses his arms. “Something’s wrong, tell me.” He tries for levity: “We’ve got to keep our model-couple-communication streak going, right?” 

Eames’s answering smile is tight. “I don’t get it, pet. When we had that whole talk about your management closeting you, you specifically said that _it wasn’t like you had a boyfriend to hide_. Well, now you have a boyfriend. And you’re hiding me.” 

“It’s not like that,” Arthur protests at once. 

“Really? Because it seems that way to me. Is it me? Is it Mal? Does she not want you to be with a nobody? Because if you—”

“You’re not a nobody,” says Arthur, “and I’d be with you even if you were.” 

“I’m a flake,” says Eames flatly. “A little bit of theatre, a little bit of modeling. Now this. I’m not on a fucking trajectory, not like you are.” 

“That doesn’t matter to me,” says Arthur. “As long as you’re happy with what you’re doing, the number of credits on your Wikipedia page doesn’t matter to me.” 

“Does it matter to your image clause?” Eames asks. “I was joking about the next Neil Patrick Harris when we met, but maybe you really are holding out for him.” 

“Fuck my image clause, _no_ ,” says Arthur. 

Eames seems to deflate. “You probably should be with him, though. The next NPH, whoever he is. I dunno what you’re doing with me. You’ve got—all these big dreams, and what am I even doing?”

“Stop it,” says Arthur. “I’m with you because you make me happy, okay?” 

Eames phone begins to ring.

“Eames,” Arthur insists. “Okay?” 

Eames looks at his phone. “It’s my agent,” he says dully. “I need to take this.” 

Eames spends the rest of the bus ride huddled near the front on the phone, and he doesn’t stop to say goodbye before heading to the airport. 

Somehow, Arthur makes it through the radio spots and soundcheck without making a complete idiot of himself. Then he huddles in his dressing room and calls Ariadne. He may or may not be clutching the UCL sweatshirt Eames left behind on the bus. 

“I think I fucked up,” says Arthur as soon as Ariadne answers. 

“Oh boy,” says Ari. “Hang on, let me move these models off the bed so I can sit down for this.”

Because her finals are approaching. Which means she’ll be here soon. Thank God. 

“Probably a good idea,” Arthur says. 

Through the phone, Arthur hears some thumping sounds and a muffled _“shit.”_

“All right,” she says after a minute. “Tell Ari what’s up.”

“Only if you promise to not speak in the third-person,” says Arthur. 

“You’re stalling,” she says.

“I am,” Arthur agrees. He feels sick. 

He tells her. 

“Hmm,” she says, once he’s finished. 

“That’s it?” Arthur says, slightly hysterical. “I spilled my first real fight with my first real boyfriend and that’s all the advice you have to offer?” 

“I’m thinking, hang on,” she says. 

“I really, really like him,” says Arthur. “I just don’t feel ready to be public about our relationship. But he’s amazing. He’s so, so unbelievably amazing and I don’t get how he could think otherwise.” 

“Because you’re the best,” Ariadne says. “You are the _best_ , of course he feels inadequate in comparison.”

“I don’t think of it, of us, like that,” says Arthur. 

“I know,” says Ariadne. “But he might need some more time. It sounds like he’s kind of got his own stuff to sort through, you know?” 

“But he wants us to go public,” says Arthur. 

“And you don’t want to.”

“I don’t,” Arthur confesses. “Is that selfish? I’m being selfish.” 

“Both of you have valid feelings on the subject,” says Ariadne. “You need to keep talking with each other about it.”

“I mentioned the bit where he’s in New York, right?” 

“You did,” says Ariadne. “Talk to him when he gets back.” 

“I don’t want to choose between… not having him and going public together,” says Arthur. “I’d—I’d pick him, but—”

“You shouldn’t have to,” says Ariadne. “I don’t think it has to be that black-and-white. Focus on your concert tonight, talk to Eames when he gets back.” 

“Fuck, the concert,” Arthur groans. “It’s going to be a mess.”

“It’s not,” says Ariadne. “You can do this. Repeat after me. You can do this.”

“You can do this.”

“Arthur.”

“Fine. I can do this,” says Arthur. 

“With feeling.” 

“I can do this,” says Arthur. He takes a deep breath. 

“Good boy,” says Ariadne. Arthur rolls his eyes, even though she can’t see him. “I’m going to hang up now, because you probably have things you’re supposed to be doing. Do them. Have a great show. I’ll see you soon.” 

“You’re the best,” Arthur says fervently.

“Don’t I know it,” she says, right before she hangs up. 

  


Arthur tries to distract himself by hanging out a bit with his musicians, whom he realizes he’s been neglecting in favor of spending every minute (waking and not) with Eames. None of them seem to be concerned about Eames’s absence; situations like this are exactly why they have backup backup dancers, after all. 

As his opener begins her set, Nash and Robert corner Arthur by the food table. 

“We have a question,” says Nash. 

“Okay…” says Arthur. 

“Do you want me to take Eames’s part, the way we practiced in rehearsal, or Eames’s part, the way he’s been doing it the last few shows?” asks Nash. 

“Basically, do I go back to doing what I did on the West Coast, or continue with the switches we’ve done since?” Robert clarifies. 

Arthur sighs. “Let’s do the original. So you do the piano benches, the ‘Merry Chase’ and ‘Worth a Shot’ assists, all of it,” he says to Robert. 

“Great,” says Robert. 

Nash and Robert stand there awkwardly for a minute, until Arthur finally waves his phone and says, “I have to make a call, so…” and retreats back to his dressing room. 

He doesn’t actually have to make a call. Instead, he slumps into a chair and opens a new text message to Eames. 

_To Eames: I hope you had a good flight._

_To Eames: Good luck with the shoot! I don’t know if ‘break a leg’ is appropriate here—I guess I should have asked earlier._

_To Eames: I miss you already._

_To Eames: Sorry if I wasn’t supposed to say that. I’ll stop bothering you. Have a good time in New York._

Eames doesn’t reply, and Arthur tells himself it’s because Eames is on a plane, and as soon as Eames is not on a plane, he’ll be working. Because they’re both professionals. 

That doesn’t stop him from clutching his phone as he goes through hair and makeup and pre-show vocal warm-ups. 

They’re two minutes from the pre-show huddle when his phone chimes in his hand. 

Arthur almost can’t bring himself to look at it, convinced it will be a text from his mom or Ariadne or even Mal. (Then he feels guilty.) 

He opens his messages. 

_From Eames: You’re not bothering me, ever_

_From Eames: I miss you too. Sorry for being a twat earlier & not saying goodbye_

_From Eames: I will try not to break my leg during the shoot but frankly darling this director is a bit of a loose cannon so anything seems possible_

_From Eames: Sorry I left these so late—I hope you see this before you go on. Bring down the house tonight_

Arthur grins and shakes his head. 

“Everything all right?” Dom asks, clapping him on the back. 

“Yeah,” says Arthur. 

_To Eames: About to head onstage_

_To Eames: xoxoxoxo_

He passes his phone to Dom and joins the pre-show huddle. 

  


**@angelprincess** : WHERE IS EAMES??? #WithinADreamTour 

**@sophieroe** : EAMES ISN’T HERE TONIGHT. @eamesss where are you? 

**@roxiesinha** : Arthur seems fine… maybe Eames just needed a rest night? 

**@philipaf** : @eamesss we need answers 

**@conor88** : Whoever this sub is, he’s not nearly as hot as @eamesss. Come back we miss you!

**@maxmax** : Arthur just did the last shirt change—HE’S WEARING AN ARSENAL TSHIRT pic.twitter #WithinADreamTour 

**@eschuyler** : isn’t @eamesss an Arsenal supporter?? ARTHUR LOVES HIS BOY 

**@jeff2020** : It gets better: check out Eames’s pic from the day of the match v. Swansea pic.twitter

**@jeff2020** : Arthur is wearing the same shirt rn. MAYBE they have matching shirts, but doesn’t that shirt look a little big on A? 

  


_From Eames: My shirt looks good on you_

_From Eames: also the FBI should recruit from your fandom_

_To Eames: It’s late, go to sleep._

_To Eames: xoxo_

_From Eames: xoxoxoxo_

  


**@eamesss** : Apparently there’s been a bit of a virtual missing-persons search for me… 

**@eamesss** : No need for alarm! On a quick jaunt to NYC for some super secret model stuff. Back soon! 

**@eamesss** : Pictures coming out in the next couple weeks… stay tuned! 

**@ariadneisamaze** : @eamesss so these pictures, shirt or no shirt?

**@eamess** : @ariadneisamaze excellent question. Mostly with shirts 

**@ariadneisamaze** : @eamesss damn

**@karenlee** : what is Ariadne doing?? Doesn’t she know about A/E 

**@lucille22** : @karenlee I’m 99% sure she does. She & A are besties. She’s basically flirting w/ E for A b/c he can’t 

  


Eames gets back late the next night. When he opens the door to their room, Arthur is already tucked into bed, re-reading _Mostly Harmless_ on his Kindle. 

“Hey,” Eames whispers, dropping his duffle bag on the ground and toeing off his shoes. 

“Good flight?” Arthur asks, sitting up. 

Eames makes a face. “Are they ever, really?” He stands awkwardly at the end of the bed. 

“C’mere,” says Arthur, and Eames gratefully crawls up next to him. 

“Sorry about the way I left things,” says Eames. 

“I think we both could have handled that better,” says Arthur carefully. “We don’t have to talk about it now, if you don’t want to. You just got back, I’m sure it’s been a long day…” 

Eames shakes his head. “I was being stupid. I love being with you, no matter how many people know. That’s enough for me.” 

“Are you sure?” Arthur asks. 

“Are you ready for us to go public?” Eames parries.

“No,” says Arthur. 

“Okay then,” says Eames. “We won’t.” 

“It’s not because of _you_ ,” says Arthur, his voice rising a bit. “You’re fantastic and everybody should know it.” 

“It’s all right, darling,” says Eames. “We can do this all on our own time. I mean, I don’t want us to be a secret forever—”

“Neither do I,” Arthur says at once. 

“But we can put it on hold for a while. Maybe check in after we get back from England?” 

“Yes,” says Arthur. “Let’s do that.” 

Eames smiles and reaches out, placing a hand on Arthur’s cheek, rubbing his thumb along Arthur’s jaw. “Okay. Now, excuse my bluntness, but I am knackered and also terribly in need of a good snog from my boyfriend, whom I have missed awfully.” 

Arthur is happy to oblige.

  


**@anotherarthur** : NASHVILLE. You were a dream (come true) 

**@rlcountrystarshere** : our boys reunited and they look so good #Nashville

**@janesense** : Arthur was ALL SMILES tonight #Nashville 

  


It rains the entire time they’re in St. Louis, but Arthur makes sure they get a shot of the whole crew in front the Arch anyway. He stands in the center of the group, between Eames and Dom. Eames _may_ have a hand on his ass, but nobody will be able to tell, right? 

  


On another rest day, Ariadne texts him a picture of her signature. 

**@anotherarthur** : It’s official! @ariadneisamaze will be joining us once she’s done with her finals. So excited to have her on tour :) 

**@anotherarthur** : Wishing everybody good luck on their exams! Study hard!

**@ariadneisamaze** : @anotherarthur you’re so lame but thanks 

**@anotherarthur** : @ariadneisamaze I take it back, you’re not invited. 

**@ariadneisamaze** : @anotherarthur Worth A Shot is literally my song, you can’t stop me 

**@arthurxari** : SEE HE WROTE A SONG FOR HER #love

**@arthurrr** : @arthurxari uh he’s gay and the song is about taking chances in general & surrounding yourself w/ supportive people?? So no. 

  


The worst part about post-concert adrenaline is that Arthur has to _wait_ to do anything with it. He has to meet fans and sign posters with his face on them, and then ride back to the hotel, and consume something before he topples over... It’s not that he doesn’t recognize his body’s need for caloric intake or appreciate his fans—because he does, and they’re all so excited to meet him, and he tries his best to meet their expectations—but. 

What he really wants to do the instant he steps off the stage is make out with Eames for a _long_ time; unfortunately, there is no magic portal between backstage and their hotel room—not to mention the issue of the fans, room service, et cetera—so by the time everything else is out of the way, some of the need is lost. 

Enough remains, of course, to land them where they are now: on the bed, Arthur straddling Eames, his hands pushing up Eames’s t-shirt, revealing warm, warm skin—

“Off?” Eames suggests between kisses, ineffectually wriggling while trying to pluck at Arthur’s shirt at the same time. 

“Yeah,” says Arthur, pulling his own t-shirt over his head and tossing it on the ground. They’ve gotten this far—that is to say, shirtless, and, fuck, what a _sight_ , Eames’s chest up close, just for him—twice before, but no further, and Arthur is half-annoyed that Eames has shown no intention of touching his dick and half-grateful that Eames has shown no intention of touching his dick... and fuck—“Wait,” says Arthur. He slips off of Eames. 

“You okay?” Eames asks at once, twisting to face him, but—not touching him. 

Arthur buries his face in the comforter. “Fucking health class.” 

“I think I’m missing something, darling.” Eames’s voice is cautious, gentle, a complete reversal of the playful need of thirty seconds before. 

Arthur rolls over to lie on his back. “We’re supposed to have the sex talk.” 

“Okay,” says Eames, slowly. 

“I’ve never… like, I’ve never done anything before. Which I guess you’ve figured out, because we haven’t done anything,” says Arthur.

“Really? I think our snogging sessions have been quite enjoyable, myself,” says Eames. 

“You know what I mean. Sex,” says Arthur. God help him, he is _not_ going to use the base metaphor. Which, come to think of it, Eames might not even know, because they don’t have baseball in England, right? 

“I do know what you mean,” says Eames. “But kissing is nice, too. It’s not nothing. Also, we haven’t been together all that long. Unless you’re counting the months during which I was attempting to woo you even though you did most of the cooking, in which case, we’ve been together for a while, and I still need to remind you that there’s no universal timeline for sex.” 

“But, like… you want to, right?” Arthur asks. “You’ve had sex before. Not that that means you want to have sex with me, um.” Health class definitely did not teach him how to go about this in a non-awkward fashion. 

“Do _you_ want to have sex, love?” Eames asks. 

“Yes,” says Arthur, because _yes_ , definitely, although—“Not, like, tonight, probably. But in the near future?” This is the _worst_. 

Eames is watching his face intently. “Because you actually want to have sex, or because you think it’s a thing that people do?”

“Because I actually want to have sex with you,” Arthur answers. _Duh_. If he had sex just because it was a thing people tended to want once they reached a certain age, he would have had sex ages ago. 

“Then I would very much like to have sex with you, at some point,” says Eames. “There’s not any sort of pace or schedule I’m expecting that we follow, okay? And there’s not some sort of list I’m keeping that we have to check off. Or, I dunno, darling, you probably have a list, and it’s probably a wonderful list and I look forward to doing whatever’s on it, but there’s not a—a universal list of stuff you’re required to do with your partner. We’ll do whatever we both find enjoyable and skip the rest.” 

“Okay,” says Arthur. He reaches out to touch Eames’s chest. He’s not ready to pick up where they left off yet, but… touching Eames is almost always better than not touching Eames. “And if I’m, like… terrible at it?” 

“The only real way to be terrible at sex is to not pay attention to your partner or listen to their needs,” says Eames. He bends his arm so that he’s holding Arthur’s hand, pressing it more firmly against his skin. 

Arthur inches a little closer and stretches out his other arm so that he can cradle Eames’s head with his hand, running his fingers through the short hairs at the nape of Eames’s neck. 

“I’ll get working on that list,” Arthur whispers, and leans in for a kiss.


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur wants to pick up Ariadne from the airport, but her flight ends up getting delayed, so she meets them at the hotel mere minutes before they have to leave for the venue. 

_From Ariadne: I’m in the lobby come see me!!!_

_To Ariadne: Heading down now!_

_From Ariadne: Bring Eames_

_To Ariadne: Obviously_

When they exit the elevator, Ariadne is standing beside the front desk, partially surrounded by suitcases and chatting with the concierge. 

“Ari!” Arthur calls. 

Ariadne spins, nearly trips over one of her bags, and maneuvers around the rest to rush to hug Arthur. 

When he lets her go, though, she shakes her head. “We have to do that again. I demand a spinny hug.” 

“A what?” says Eames, as Arthur rolls his eyes and says, “Go on, then.” 

Ariadne retreats a few steps, then launches herself at Arthur, who catches her and spins them around. It’s a rom-com move they perfected when they were fifteen and Ariadne was bemoaning the lack of partner-material students at their high school. 

Eames claps as Arthur sets Ariadne down. 

“Much better,” says Ari, and turns to face Eames. “Hello. I’m the original best friend.” 

Eames shakes her hand gravely. “Hello. I’m the boyfriend.” 

“Finally,” says Ariadne.

  


**@robertfischer:** Poor @Marcdances will be out tonight (food poisoning, yikes), but @peterbrowningjr is 100% ready to step in! #WithinADreamTour 

**@allthatjazz** : lol look at HQ trying to pretend we care equally about all the backup dancers (no offense)

**@rowan45** : Like they’re trying to stave off another find-the-missing-dancer manhunt but… yeah we only do that for E 

**@emmafield** : COULD THEY BE ANY MORE OBVIOUS. Sorry HQ, I reserve my research skills for my ship. But thanks for letting us know you watch us! 

**@fanny-ie** : Bets on whether HQ will keep using Robert to disseminate the party line or whether they will evenly distribute? 

  


“Check your bag,” Arthur whispers to Eames as he heads for the room where he’ll meet the backstage passholders.

Eames lifts an eyebrow.

“I left you a list,” says Arthur.

“Fuck,” says Eames. 

It’s really not much of a list ( _1\. you 2. me 3. our hotel room 4. orgasms?_ ), but Arthur thought it would be fun to do anyway. 

  


They start fast, like they always do, because they’ve just had to keep their hands off each other for _hours_ and it’s not quite unbearable, but once Arthur has Eames alone in their room, he wants him _now_ and it’s all a bit of a blur: shedding t-shirts, hard, messy kisses, both of them pulling the other toward the bed, falling onto it, scrambling to pull each other closer, tighter, to make up for every feather-light touch they tried to sneak during the show. 

And then it slows down. Their kisses are deeper, longer. Arthur smooths his hands over the muscled plane of Eames’s back; Eames’s hands are cradling his hips. 

“Here, let,” Eames whispers.

“Yes, that—”

“Is this...?”

“Yeah, and—”

“Fuck, yes.” 

  


Arthur walks into his dressing room while he’s on the phone with Mal, discussing the latest attendance figures and some new sponsorships for him to consider once he’s through with tour. 

Ariadne, Eames, and—weirdly—Yusuf are gathered around Ariadne’s laptop, presumably watching some sort of video. 

“Let me know when we have the offers in writing,” Arthur says, crossing toward the trio. Halfway there, he realizes he’s doing some abridged version of the ‘Labyrinth’ choreography, and it isn’t until Mal replies, “But of course,” that Arthur realizes ‘Labyrinth’ is actually playing from the laptop’s speakers. 

Mal ends the call, and Arthur asks, “Aren’t you all tired of it already?” 

“No, no, you’ve got to see this,” Yusuf says, waving him around to the other side of the computer. “It’s sick, your fans are amazing.” 

Arthur looks at the screen, where the video is still playing; there’s a two-second (muted) clip from an interview he did back in September, immediately followed by a clip from the ‘Gravity’ music video, followed by a clip of _Eames_ from one of his modeling jobs. 

“What is this?” Arthur asks.

“Start it over,” Yusuf urges. 

Ariadne hits pause and resets the video. “I have been trying to watch the last thirty seconds of this for fifteen minutes now. _People_ keep interrupting and demanding to know what I’m watching.” 

“What _are_ you watching, though? There is no ‘Labyrinth’ music video,” says Arthur. 

“One of your fans made it,” says Ariadne, and presses play, as if that’s enough of an explanation. 

Despite the fact that the clips are taken from videos that span at least two years—Arthur isn’t sure of the exact dates for some of Eames’s—the editing is brilliant, and even though there are precisely _zero_ clips in which Arthur and Eames appear together (apparently cell phone concert footage didn’t meet the creator’s standards), there is no doubt that the narrative is about them. 

“Is that legal?” Arthur wonders, after the video ends. 

“Who cares, I want this person to edit your behind-the-scenes footage,” Yusuf says. 

“I didn’t know you were in charge of that,” Arthur says.

“I’m not,” says Yusuf. “But someone should hire this person.” 

“It might fall under ‘fair use,’” Ariadne says. “Even if it doesn’t, _I’m_ not reporting them. Sorry. I’m sure most of the people watching it already bought the song on iTunes.” 

“Oh,” says Arthur. “I wasn’t even thinking about that bit.” To be honest, so much of his income does-slash-will come from ticket and merch sales, he can’t bring himself to care too much about people listening to it for free on YouTube. He’s far more worried about the narrative the video offers. 

“It’s just for fun,” Ariadne reassures him. 

“Like the conspiracy theories that we actually met in a coffee shop, or on a heist, which I protest for your sake, darling,” adds Eames.

“Um, what?” says Arthur. “We’re not thieves. What the fuck. Do I need to get legal involved?” 

“Stop, stop, stop,” says Ariadne. “Eames is teasing. They’re not conspiracy theories, just fanfic.” 

“So… nobody actually thinks we’re criminals,” Arthur ventures.

“Just criminally attractive,” Eames says with a wink. 

Yusuf, who has been watching this exchange avidly, snorts. “Seriously, man?” 

Arthur cuts in before Eames can respond. “Okay, I’d just like to clarify here that nobody actually thinks we’re criminals? Like, I don’t want to become the next Ted-Cruz-is-the-Zodiac-Killer meme.” 

“Nobody thinks you’re criminals,” Ariadne says patiently. “They just like to imagine if you were.”

“But—why,” Arthur asks helplessly. “Mal went to all this trouble to give me a clean image, and the fans still…?” 

“Don’t question it,” Ariadne advises. “I mean, don’t read it, but don’t question it. It’s fine. They think you’re great. If it helps, even as criminals, they think you two would adopt babies and save puppies.” 

“The _two—_ ” Arthur begins, before Yusuf interrupts him. 

“It’s lucky you stopped by, really,” Yusuf babbles, ignoring the part where he is in _Arthur’s_ dressing room, “because I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the lights.” 

“Okay,” says Arthur. 

Yusuf grins. “I was thinking ‘Elephant in the Room’ could use a bit of an update. How do you feel about rainbow spotlights?” 


	9. Chapter 9

They wrap up the last concerts for this part of the tour, then head back to L.A. for a two-week break before England. For once, they fly, leaving the buses to a skeleton crew. 

“What should we do, with all this time?” Eames teases as the plane taxis to the gate. 

“Sleep. Fresh fruit,” says Arthur.

“Thank God,” says Ariadne from the seat next to him. “If you had said anything else, I would have had to give you a penalty. No being gross on planes when I can’t escape you.” 

Arthur’s mom offered to pick them all up, but Arthur didn’t want to make her drive all the way out to LAX, so Mal or Dom had arranged for transportation. 

As they make to leave baggage claim, though, the eight of them—Arthur, Ariadne, and all the dancers—are swarmed by paparazzi, all of whom are shouting and snapping pictures at about a mile a minute. 

Now, Arthur has some experience with paparazzi, but mostly in controlled areas, like the Grammys or _The Voice_. And even though he knows that LAX airport security deals with these people every day and wouldn’t let anything get out of hand, it’s still a shock. More than a shock. His nerves are thrumming like they do before a show, but he knows what to do in a show, he knows how to handle that; here, this, it’s unfamiliar territory and he doesn’t know what to do and he doesn’t know how to get _out_. They’re too close and are keeping pace with the group and an instinctive, primal fear settles in Arthur’s stomach and part of him wants to stand still and close his eyes and pretend not to exist until they vanish, and part of him wants to run.

Someone (he thinks Eames) grabs his elbow and pulls him along. 

“Arthur!”

“Arthur, over here!” 

“Arthur, tell us about tour!”

“Arthur, are you excited for England?”

“Arthur!” 

Luckily, their group is so large that it’s difficult to truly contain them for any period of time, so they manage to push through and escape to the three waiting SUVs. 

Eames pushes him and Ariadne into the first, leaving the other dancers to sort themselves out. They’re all squashed into the backseat, but Arthur can’t bring himself to care. 

“Jesus fuck,” Arthur says. “That was unexpected.” 

“Mal,” Eames and Ariadne exclaim in unison. 

“What?” 

“Fucking Mal,” Eames says as the car pulls away. 

“She must have called them,” says Ariadne. 

“ _What_? Why? How do you know that?” 

“Whatever you might think, paps don’t just hang out at LAX, hoping they’ll hit the right baggage claim. People’s managers tip them off, tell them where to be and when,” Ari explains. 

“Why would Mal call them?” Arthur demands. “Why would she do that? Without warning us?” 

“Why does Mal do anything?” Eames says. 

“She wants to increase your name recognition,” says Ariadne. 

“She should have warned me,” Arthur grumbles. “Did you know?” he asks Ariadne. 

“Of course not, I would have told you,” she says. 

“I’m meeting with her this week,” says Arthur. “I’ll tell her she can’t surprise us next time.” 

“Next time?” says Eames. 

“Do you really think I could make her stop? She's just doing her job,” says Arthur. 

"And a music manager 'just doing his or her job' has never gone badly before," Ariadne deadpans. 

  


Arthur spends the night at his mom’s house, because they missed each other and Arthur has been gone and is about to leave again. 

Arthur is prepared to feel strange about sleeping in his childhood bedroom again, and he anticipates correctly. The room doesn’t feel _his_ anymore. He can recognize the self who inhabited the space, but he’s not that person anymore—not necessarily in a good or bad way; it simply is what it is. 

It doesn’t help, of course, that most of his things—his posters and books and such—are now in his apartment, so the traces of personality that remain are from older (younger) interests: taekwondo trophies, Star Wars prequel trilogy posters (so he was young and impressionable), and so on. 

The stranger part is that the strang _est_ part is not trying to fall asleep in a room that once belonged to him more than any other place in the world and no longer does, but trying to fall asleep in a room in which Eames is not. 

Around 2 a.m., he gives up and texts Eames. 

_To Eames: I think tour has made me co-dependent._

Twenty seconds later, he gets a response. 

_From Eames: I can’t sleep either_

_From Eames: Marta & Daniel made sure to emphasize how much they liked Brian – the guy I was subletting to _

_From Eames: Such a sweet pair_

_To Eames: Let’s both stay over at mine tomorrow._

_To Eames: If you want?_

_From Eames: Are you sure?_

_To Eames: YES. (No pressure though.)_

_From Eames: Darling I’ve been sharing a bed with you for two months_

_To Eames: So… yes?_

_From Eames: Yes. :)_

_To Eames: Okay, need to try to sleep again now. Don’t forget about brunch with us!!!_

_From Eames: 11, I’ll be there… haven’t done laundry in ages tho so no guarantees on what shirt I’ll be wearing to meet your mum_

_To Eames: You’ve met her before._

_From Eames: Not properly_

_To Eames: As long as you’re wearing a shirt, it’ll be fine._

_From Eames: Good night love_

_To Eames: xoxo_

  


Eames shows up to brunch wearing a button-down whose pattern is only slightly questionable. Also, it actually fits him, which somewhat makes up for the design. (Somewhat. Because the fact that Eames is wearing a nice-ish shirt not for concert purposes is making Arthur want to tug it off him, and that’s not really a productive thought to be having while his mom is finishing up the eggs.) 

“What are you boys’ plans for the break?” Arthur’s mom asks about halfway through the meal. 

“It’s not really a break, you know,” Arthur says. “I mean, it’s a break from touring, but it’s not a _break_.” 

“We’ve got a week of rehearsals to work out the transitions for the new England setlist, since we’ll be doing a combination of full concerts and shorter sets,” Eames explains, “and we need to rearrange a bit for the different stage configurations, especially since we’re not bringing all of the usual set pieces over.” 

Arthur’s mom frowns. “Don’t let them work you too hard.” 

“Arthur, work too hard?” Eames jokes. He stretches his arm out, resting a hand on Arthur’s back. Arthur leans into the touch. 

When they make it back to Arthur’s apartment, Eames sits on Arthur’s bed while Arthur unpacks.

“So, did I pass?” Eames asks. 

Arthur looks up from where he’s unrolling a t-shirt. (Anybody who packs by folding rather than rolling is an amateur.) “With flying colors.” 

“Seriously, darling. Did I pass?” 

Arthur frowns and sets the shirt down. “Of course you did. You think I’m marvelous and told her that and that’s… really all she needed to know.” 

“Of course you’re marvelous,” Eames says, and Arthur knows the unspoken is, _but I’m not sure I am_. 

“She wouldn’t have hugged you good-bye if you hadn’t ‘passed,’” Arthur says. 

Eames is silent for a long moment, then offers, “No angst about the fact that her only child is bedding a foreigner who nearly crashes his car every time he drives because driving in this city is the fucking worst?” 

“I love how that turned into a rant about L.A. traffic,” says Arthur. (He really does, because it means Eames is ready to be talked out of his lingering insecurity about brunch.) 

“The fucking worst,” Eames repeats. 

“Except you _don’t_ crash the car,” Arthur continues. 

“I’m telling you, the 405 is out to get me,” says Eames. 

“Maybe,” Arthur allows. “But if you were to crash, my mom would help you figure out the insurance stuff.” 

Eames blinks at him. “ _Why_?” 

“Because she’s good at that sort of thing, and you’re my boyfriend,” says Arthur. 

“I am, no matter how many _Arthur will you date me_ signs people bring to concerts,” Eames says, but his voice is teasing. 

“I’ve been seeing fewer of those, actually,” says Arthur. “Plenty of ones about us though.” He winces, pushes through. “They can’t seem to decide on a ship name for us.” 

“That’s because they’re thinking old school, portmanteau-style ship names,” says Eames wisely. 

“Oh?” Arthur stands and turns to his dresser, a fistful of clean socks in each hand. 

“They’ve got to start looking at it from an Avengers point of view. What’s the overlap between your fandom and the MCU fandom?” 

“Ask Ariadne,” says Arthur, putting his socks away. “Apparently the tumblr tags are an absolute mess because they can’t agree, so some people are resorting to ‘Arthur x Eames,’ which makes some other people upset because every other ship they’ve… shipped has had a good name.” 

(Talking about it in this way—on almost a theoretical level, as if this ‘ship’ wasn’t _him and Eames—_ is far easier than thinking about the content these fans produce: namely, ‘A/E is real’ proof posts. Not to mention the criminal not-actually-conspiracy-theories conspiracy theories.) 

Eames shakes his head mournfully. “How can they go on shipping us, when we’ve failed them at such a basic level? When we’re clearly so inherently incompatible?”

“Hey now,” says Arthur. “We’re very compatible.” 

“Health-class-video compatible,” says Eames. 

Arthur steps over the suitcase to straddle Eames’s lap. (Okay, he kind of trips over the suitcase and lands in Eames’s lap, but as his intentions matched the outcome, he’s not going to complain about the lack of grace.) 

“Hullo,” says Eames, his hands settling automatically on Arthur’s waist. 

“Hi,” says Arthur. He is maybe already a little bit breathless. 

“Going to show me just how compatible we are?” Eames waggles his eyebrows. 

Rather than stoop to answer such a question, Arthur kisses him. 

After—and after all of the necessary steps involving condom disposal and washcloths have been dealt with and they’re just lying on the bed, hands tangled—Eames says, “I see why people go on about welcome-home sex. We’ll have to keep going on tour, love.”

“Just so we can come home and have welcome-home sex?” Arthur asks. 

“Yeah,” says Eames. 

Arthur isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or kiss Eames very tenderly or call Ariadne and panic about how _fond_ he is of Eames, so he rolls over on his side to properly face Eames. “Our post-concert sex wasn’t doing it for you?” 

“Our post-concert sex was definitely doing it for me,” says Eames.

“But sex in a bed that is not a hotel bed and whose comforter we can actually trust also does it for you,” says Arthur. 

“Well, all that does it for _you_ , so that works for me, too,” says Eames. 

(Arthur can’t take it anymore and initiates round two.)

Eventually, they make it out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, at which time they realize there is no tea. 

Actually, there are no foodstuffs whatsoever, except for a few sad cans of soup that Arthur does not think are appropriate for late May in Los Angeles, because Arthur was fastidious about emptying the cupboards and fridge before leaving for tour, and he hadn’t had his mom pick anything up before their return. (His return. Either way.) 

“We need to go grocery shopping,” Arthur says. 

“So you can cook me one of your seven dinners?” Eames is sitting on the counter. He’s not wearing a shirt, and somehow his tattoos—his abs—all that skin—against the backdrop of Arthur’s weirdly tiled backsplash are at least as enticing as they are during ‘Merry Chase.’ At least. 

“You love my Chicken Florentine,” says Arthur. 

“I do,” says Eames. “Does this mean I need to put on a shirt?” 

“Yes,” says Arthur. “The store won’t let you in otherwise.” 

“We need to find a good farmers’ market,” Eames complains. “They wouldn’t mind.” 

“We don’t need much,” Arthur says, opting to skirt the shirt discussion entirely. “We’re only here for two weeks.” 

“Oh!” says Eames, hopping off the counter. “We can have welcome-home sex when we get to London. Philosophical welcome-home sex, anyway. Didn’t bother to keep the flat when I moved here.” 

“Sure,” says Arthur. “Looking forward to it.”

(He really is.) 

“Fine, pet, I will go put on a shirt. The things I do for you!”

“The things you do for tea,” Arthur corrects. 

  


Arthur has never gone grocery shopping with Eames before, and now suddenly he feels self-conscious. What if Eames judges him for his organic blueberries? Or doesn’t like the brand of whole grain bread he buys? 

He stands in front of the cheese section for nearly a full minute before Eames simply plops his usual purchases in the cart, and Arthur remembers Eames was intimately familiar with Arthur’s cooking before… well, before Eames was intimately familiar with him. 

“All right there?” Eames asks, because now Arthur is staring at the cheese in the cart. 

“You remembered the cheese,” says Arthur. 

Eames scrunches his eyebrows together. “You always get the same kinds.” 

“I know,” says Arthur. 

“Okay,” says Eames, slowly. “Ready to move on from the cheese?” 

As it turns out, although Eames has apparently memorized Arthur’s preferred brands, Eames is also not shy about filling the cart with a wild assortment of other food with which Arthur has never attempted to cook. 

“We should have a cooking show,” says Arthur. 

“Why’s that?” 

“It would be called something like, seven normal dinners, by Arthur, and one to three very strange appetizers, by Eames.” Arthur pokes at a raw artichoke. He wasn’t really aware they existed outside of dip. 

“That sounds like the plot of a fanfic, not the name of a show,” Eames says. 

Arthur immediately glances around at their fellow shoppers, but it’s a weekday afternoon, and the place is pretty quiet. The closest customers to them—a dad and two small kids—don’t seem particularly interested in their conversation. 

“Five plus one, and all that,” Eames continues.

“People are writing fanfic about contracts?” Arthur asks. He knows fandom is inventive, but this seems excessive. 

“What do contracts have to do with anything?” Eames asks. 

Arthur looks at the dad-plus-kids combo again. “Let’s… talk about that later.” 

  


That night, when Eames is re-watching an old FA Cup match and Arthur is checking his business email, Eames says, “Explain how you got ‘contracts’ from fanfic?” 

“You said five plus one,” Arthur replies. 

“Maybe it’s an American-versus-British thing, darling, but I really don’t feel like we’re talking about the same thing here,” says Eames. 

“I have a three album contract,” says Arthur. “Three albums, three tours, a certain number of singles for each, et cetera. There’s also an extension clause in the contract, so—and this is simplifying the process a bit, but just go with it—it could be expanded to a five plus one deal. Five albums and one bonus album, usually a Christmas album or a Greatest Hits album.” 

“Oh, is _that_ why everyone does a Christmas album?” Eames says. 

“Cheap production, decent sales.” Arthur shrugs. “But obviously I’d do a Greatest Hits. Even Mal would have to see that having a Jewish singer do a Christmas album doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“I dunno,” says Eames. “You could always just do twelve different arrangements of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside.’ I’d buy that.” 

“Or three arrangements each of ‘Let It Snow,’ ‘Winter Wonderland,’ ‘Sleigh Ride,’ and ‘Jingle Bells,’” says Arthur, closing his laptop and setting it aside. 

“You’ve put some thought into this,” Eames observes. 

“Unfortunately,” says Arthur. 

Eames pauses the match. “Don’t let Mal talk you into doing a Christmas album.” 

“I don’t even have a five plus one yet,” says Arthur. 

“Don’t let her,” says Eames. 

“Okay,” says Arthur. “Why did you think it was fanfiction?” 

Eames brightens immediately. “The five-plus-one trope! Ariadne was filling me in while you were doing your radio spots the other day.” 

“But the trope isn’t about contracts?” Arthur clarifies. 

“No, it’s… five times something happened and then one time it didn’t, or one time something else happened instead.”

Arthur can’t help it: he snorts. 

“Five times Ariadne explained Arthur’s fandom to him, one times Eames did it instead,” says Eames. “Five times Eames posted a shirtless picture on Twitter and one time he didn’t.”

“As if,” Arthur interjects.

“Five times Arthur cooked a very ordinary dinner and one time Eames cooked three unusual, but delicious, appetizers instead,” says Eames, smug. 

“Yes, yes, it was all very good,” says Arthur, rolling his eyes. He wriggles a little closer to Eames on the couch and sags into him, leaning his head on Eames’s shoulder. 

“Good first day back, love?” 

“Good first day back,” Arthur confirms. 


	10. Chapter 10

“Welcome to London, everybody. If this is your final destination, have a great time in the UK. If you’re making a connecting flight, we hope the rest of your travels are as smooth as this. Thanks for flying with us today,” says the pilot, as the plane taxis to the gate.

Next to Arthur, Ariadne is bouncing in her seat. “Arthur, his accent—” she squeals. 

“Excuse me, I’m British,” Eames protests from Arthur’s other side. 

Ariadne flaps a hand. “Yeah, but your accent is different. Let me enjoy this moment.” 

In customs, Eames splits off from the rest of the group, who are stuck waiting in the non-UK, non-EU lines, but eventually they all regroup, and soon after Arthur finds himself in the back of an SUV heading east toward London proper. 

To his left, Ariadne is staring out the window, her face practically touching the glass. 

“Look, _look_ ,” she keeps saying. 

“Welcome to England,” Eames says from Arthur’s right, mimicking their pilot’s accent. 

“Hush,” says Ariadne. “I’ve never been, and neither has Arthur, and we’re going to romanticize the shit out of this country and point out everything that reminds us of Harry Potter or Downton Abbey, and basically be overexcited about it all, and you’re going to deal.” 

“Very well,” says Eames.

  


It’s mid-afternoon by the time they reach the hotel. 

There’s nothing on the schedule for that night, so Ariadne agrees to meet them back in Arthur’s room in an hour, after they’ve had a chance to shower and unpack and generally revel in no longer being on an airplane. 

Eames generously permits Arthur first use of the shower, and Arthur feels much better after washing away the inevitable germs of a trans-Atlantic flight. 

While Eames showers, Arthur checks his email; Mal, of course, has sent three since he left Los Angeles the evening before. He ignores those for a minute, opting instead to inform Twitter of his arrival and reply to a few tweets. It’s not like he’s neglecting Mal to play Words With Friends; Twitter is work, too – as ridiculous as it sounds. He can’t handle Twitter for more than a few minutes, though, so he soon turns to Mal’s emails. 

Reading them makes the majority of the clean feeling he has so recently acquired vanish. 

Arthur shuts the lid of the laptop closed with as much force as he dares and pushes it toward the other side of the bed, as if a foot of space could actually prevent the contamination of Mal’s machinations from reaching him. 

“All right there, love?” Eames asks, stepping out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist. 

“Mal,” Arthur answers, flopping back against the pillows. 

Eames makes a face. “Damn. I was hoping I wouldn’t actually need clothes for this conversation.”

Arthur glances at the clock. “Ariadne’s going to be here in half an hour, so you definitely need clothes.”

Eames smirks and lifts an eyebrow, but drops the towel without ceremony and proceeds to dress. “Tell me about Mal,” he says, pulling a t-shirt over his head. Arthur forces himself to look away, or else Ariadne really will be in danger of walking in on them (again).

“She sent me a list of talking points for my interviews here,” Arthur says.

His England schedule is pretty full: three days for the music video shoot for ‘Can’t Stay,’ four small shows in the run-up to his Hyde Park concert, a show at Glastonbury, and near-constant interviews sprinkled during most of the days in between. 

“I know she’s just doing her job,” Arthur continues, “but the last email she sent was four hundred words on my ‘persona’ that really could have been boiled down to ‘talk less, smile more.’”

“Your dimples are quite lovely,” Eames says, joining him on the bed. “But I don’t know why anyone who has heard your voice would ever think a solid marketing plan would be for you to use it less.” 

“Thanks,” says Arthur wryly. He shuffles a bit closer to Eames, pressing his back into Eames’s chest; Eames wraps an arm around him and presses a quick kiss to the back of his neck. 

“All the interviewers say you come across as very intelligent, very well-spoken,” Eames says. 

“But not warm,” says Arthur. 

“Seem pretty warm to me right now,” Eames says, brushing a hand over Arthur’s chest. 

“I wouldn’t suggest to Mal that the only way for me to project warmth is for me to get in bed with my interviewers,” Arthur says. “She might take you seriously.” 

“Late-night shows aside, your fans know you find interviews uncomfortable,” Eames says. “And they love how much more relaxed you’ve become on stage. They know you want to be there, that you appreciate them, darling.” 

“You really have been talking with Ariadne,” Arthur observes. 

“Just trying to stay on top of my boyfriend’s press,” says Eames.

“My fandom chatter, you mean,” says Arthur.

“Both, then,” says Eames. “Anyway, the point is – forget Mal. Your fans _get_ you, and they like what they see – what they hear. Your ‘persona’ is just fine the way it is.”

“Mmm,” says Arthur. He flips around to face Eames properly and takes a deep breath. “I don’t want us to become a talking point. I don’t want us to become just another thing on one of Mal’s lists, another thing for her to play with.” His voice is edging toward desperation. “And that’s what she’ll turn it, us, into, you know she will. She’ll let the press run all sorts of bullshit quotes from unnamed sources, like she did when I came out—”

“What!?” Eames hisses. 

“—and everything will be a drama, we’ll never get any peace, after every show there will be a story about how we’re fighting, or how we’re so—so into each other, and then she’ll start dictating what we’re supposed to do together and when, and we won’t get to do anything at our own pace, or seem to, anyway, and I’m worried that we’ll mix up what’s real and what’s just in her head.” Arthur buries his face in Eames’s chest. 

“Oh, love,” Eames murmurs. “Did she tell you this, when you told her about us?” 

“More or less,” says Arthur. “So I just… said we weren’t going public yet. Which we weren’t anyway. But.” 

“We’ll figure it out, all right?” says Eames, his voice thick and determined at once. “We’ll figure this all out. We’ll go public when you want, and not a minute before, and we’ll just have to remind each other of what’s real, no matter what Mal says she needs us to do. Yes?”

“Yes,” says Arthur, although his reply is muffled by Eames’s t-shirt. He takes a few deep breaths, in, and out, in, and out. “Can we just sort of… stay like this, until Ariadne comes?” 

“Of course,” says Eames. “And we don’t have to go out, if you’re not up for it.”

Arthur shakes his head. “It’s London. Ari and I made a list.” 

“London will still be here tomorrow.”

“I have interviews tomorrow.”

“Not all day.” 

“There’s a list,” Arthur repeats. 

“If you’re sure,” says Eames. 

Five or ten minutes later, Ariadne lets herself into her room. Dom looked askance when Arthur asked for three room keys from then on, but refrained from commenting. If Ariadne ever discovers threesome rumors (or _new_ threesome rumors, anyway), Arthur will know who the leak is. 

“Are we napping?” she asks. “I thought our jetlag strategy was to push through.” 

“It is,” says Arthur. “This is our Mal strategy.” 

Ariadne frowns. 

“It doesn’t matter,” says Arthur. 

Eames coughs.

“It doesn’t matter this very instant,” Arthur amends. “We’re going to see London now.” 

“A couple of the musicians are going to meet us in the lobby,” Ariadne says. 

“So you’re not obviously third-wheeling in the pictures?” Arthur guesses. 

“But Arthur,” Ariadne says in a falsetto, “don’t you know that we’re all such good, platonic friends? Isn’t it lovely how close Arthur is to his childhood best friend? Isn’t it sweet how he hangs out with his dancers?”

Arthur rolls off the bed. “C’mon, Eames. Show us London.” 

  


**@anotherarthur** : View from the Eye! pic.twitter 

**@ariadneisamaze** : I have been informed by all of you that I am required to share a pic of @anotherarthur on a red double-decker, so… pic.twitter 

**@ariadneisamaze** : Top level and everything! Never say I don’t deliver

**@arthursss** : .@ariadneisamaze is so good to us. we don’t deserve her

**@balletgirl20** : @arthursss but A&E do! doesn’t it make you feel so so much better to know she’s looking out for them? 

  


The first day of interviews is basically a press junket: Arthur sits on a couch (a couch? he’s a solo act, not a boy band) for several hours while seemingly every media outlet in the greater London area sends a representative to talk with him for one to ten minutes. It’s long and dull and more or less excruciating, but he makes a point to shake everyone’s hand and use their name in the first answer he gives (“Thanks for the question, Katie”) so he gets People Points. 

Ariadne is there, waiting just on the other side of the camera, working on two tablets and her phone at the same time. 

Eames isn’t there, because Arthur told him there was no point in both of them being bored, so Eames scheduled a meeting with his agent in the morning and lunch with some former theatre co-actors afterward. Eames was nervous about the lunch (“I haven’t done any theatre work in two years and they’re all halfway to being awarded OBEs”), and Arthur texts him between interviews. 

_To Eames: She wanted to know what else is left on the Britain List._

_To Eames: As if I’m leaking our tourist agenda._

_To Eames: I told her Westminster Abbey. We saw the outside on the bus tour yesterday, that’s good enough for me and Ari._

Occasionally, the interviewers play coy, asking who he’s texting, even though he’s sure to put his phone away before greeting them. 

“My mom,” he answers sometimes (“Aww, such a good son”). Other times, he says, “My manager.” He’s such a dutiful young pop star. 

The interviewers try to play up the British angle: who his British celebrity crushes are (Sir Ian McKellen and Andrew Scott seem like safe choices); which British artist he’d most like to collaborate with (Adele); whether he watched the FA Cup final (“I didn’t, personally, but my—I know some of my dancers follow it”). 

One of Mal’s PR minions is there to supervise, but she looks at least as bored as Arthur feels. 

  


Arthur, Eames, Ariadne, and Beth (the stylist Ariadne shares a room with) meet up for dinner after Arthur has finished expressing his excitement at the prospect of meeting his UK fans for the fiftieth time. (He really is excited to meet them. He just can’t while he’s stuck talking about how excited he is.) 

“How was lunch?” Arthur murmurs, while Beth is in the restroom (excuse him, the loo). 

“It was fine,” says Eames. He hesitates. “It was good to see them all, really. I wish I could…” 

Arthur bumps his knee against Eames’s. They’re seated in the back of the restaurant and chances are they can get through the whole meal without fuss, but whenever they’re in public, the possibility of discovery is always tingling at the edge of Arthur’s consciousness. 

“I wish I could pick a direction, like they have, you know? I’ve friends who have gone the dance route, and stuck with it, and the theatre route, and stuck with it, and the modeling route, and stuck with that, but I… can’t pick. So I’m not getting anywhere in anything,” Eames says. “Which most of the time is fine and I couldn’t give a rat’s arse about my agent’s definition of success, but it would be nice to know, you know? I mean, nice to have a plan. For my own sake.” 

“You’re twenty-two,” Ariadne reminds him. “Most Americans have barely graduated college by then, if they managed to get out in four years. You’re fine.” 

“Age in industry is different, though,” Eames says. 

“Alan Rickman didn’t make it until he was nearly twice your age—more than, depending on what you’re counting as his break-out role,” Arthur points out. 

“Alan Rickman is a legend and cannot be compared to ordinary mortals,” says Eames. “But your point is well taken.” 

“For what it’s worth,” says Arthur, “I’m very glad you picked now to try dancing for a bit.” 

Eames shakes his head, smiling, and opens his mouth to reply, but Beth comes back before he can do so. He settles for squeezing Arthur’s thigh beneath the table. 

Their relationship is an open secret amongst the crew, of course, but that doesn’t mean Arthur thinks it’s a good idea to remind them of it, not when they’re all in public, at least. 

  


“Darling,” says Eames, as they’re walking back to the hotel, “remember that night in Salt Lake City?”

_Do I remember the night I forgot about my dad dying, cried all over you, and then you asked me out?_ Arthur thinks. He tenses and glances behind them at Beth, who’s chatting with Ariadne about braiding styles. “Yes…” 

“Remember when I said I’d take you out to a good club?” 

Oh, _that_. “Yes. Have one in mind?” 

“A few, actually,” says Eames. “Thought some of my mates could join us when we go somewhere… you know.” He waggles his eyebrows, which Arthur interprets as ‘queer.’ 

“I’d love to meet them,” Arthur says, which he really means, even though he knows—and Eames knows—and his friends probably know—that extra people are mostly there to provide cover for them. 

“But there are other good places,” says Eames. “Like… friendly and all, but not strictly gay. So I thought one of those, for tonight.” 

“I’m in,” says Arthur, who is desperate to be able to say something more exciting about his first full day in London than _there were a lot of interviews_. (And not just for Twitter purposes, but for his own sanity. Ariadne has Twitter covered.) 

Eames turns to walk backwards for a moment. “You ladies care to join us? Arthur and I want to go out.” 

“Out?” Beth asks. 

“Clubbing. Dancing,” says Eames. 

“Sounds good,” says Beth, while Ariadne gives Arthur a thumbs-up. 

  


Arthur’s experience with clubs is minimal at best, but as far as he can tell, the club Eames picked is, indeed, excellent. 

Or maybe that’s just the alcohol talking.

Or maybe that’s just the way Eames is moving, and the thing is, Arthur _knows_ how good of a dancer Eames is, because he’s watched Eames dance nearly every day for the past several months. Half the show (for the dancers, anyway) is so sexualized, Arthur somewhat expected to be immune to Eames’s dancing. Or, at least as immune as he ever is during a concert.

But it turns out Marie is more professional, and Mal’s standards for all of them a little cleaner, than he was led to believe, because there is no way in hell Arthur would have survived rehearsal and the first leg of tour if Eames always danced like he is dancing tonight.

Eames is all hips, all hands all over Arthur, and it’s dark and they’re dancing so close and Arthur just wants more, more, more. 

Eames is dancing to seduce. 

Arthur is fucking mesmerized. 

Arthur tries to give as good as he gets, he does; he has, after all, spent the first half of the year learning from the best, and he’s rewarded by the occasional involuntary gasp from Eames, a tightening of the fingers on his waist. But mostly, Arthur is just along for the ride. 

Arthur is fairly proud that he holds out as long as he does, but when Eames mouths at his neck, Arthur has to choke out a desperate, “Not here.” 

He casts a quick look around; Ariadne isn’t far away, and she gives him another thumbs-up. Nobody has been sneaking pictures, then. (Arthur wasn’t terribly worried: the club is dark and crowded; everybody is far too focused on their own dance partners to enquire too closely about anybody else’s; and no matter how much Mal might desire otherwise, Arthur is still far from reaching Taylor Swift levels of recognizability.) 

“Bathroom, this way,” Eames says, nipping at his jaw and nudging Arthur in the right direction, but Arthur shakes his head. 

“I am not having my first British orgasm in a club bathroom!” he hisses into Eames’s ear. They’d both instantly passed out from jetlag after their tourist endeavors the day before, and Arthur was up too early for interviews this morning for any proper shenanigans. 

Arthur can feel Eames’s laughter against him, although it’s too loud to hear it. “No? It’d be somehow fitting, wouldn’t it? Classic even.” His hand slips down to brush against Arthur’s ass. 

“Unsanitary,” Arthur retorts. 

“Oh, darling,” Eames says, but he tugs them back toward Ariadne. “Would you mind terribly if we all left? It’s really rather urgent. Know where Beth is?” 

Ariadne points toward the bar, and they start to make their way through the crowd. 

“It’s not even one, you guys are so lame,” says Ariadne. She’s sweating and her hair is held back by a bandana-headscarf type thing, which doesn’t seem like ordinary club attire, but what does Arthur know? She’s the New Yorker. 

“We’ve got a show tomorrow,” Arthur argues, although his heart’s not in it. He’ll feel bad about dragging Ariadne and Beth away later—he will. The fact remains that he is slightly tipsy and he really, really needs Eames (read: sex with Eames), like, ten minutes ago. 

“Yeah, yeah,” says Ariadne, who summarily retrieves Beth from a stocky red-headed guy and shepherds them all toward the exit. 

No sooner have they stepped out into the street however, than they are met with the blinding flashes of paparazzi cameras. 

_The fuck_? Arthur thinks. His instinct is to shield his eyes with his arm, but Eames is gripping one hand tightly, tugging him toward the curb, and Arthur reaches out blindly for Ariadne. 

“Arthur!”

“Arthur, enjoying your night out?”

“Arthur, how’s London treating you?”

“Arthur, over here!”

There are only three paps, to be sure, and they’re mostly good about getting out of the way, but they’re still too close and the flash from the cameras is too bright, and Arthur wasn’t expecting them, what are they _doing_ here? 

Luckily, there’s a cab already there, waiting for exiting clubbers, and Ariadne pushes Beth into the front seat before climbing into the back and pulling Arthur behind her, who pulls Eames, who pulls the door shut with a hearty slam.

“Drive, please,” Ariadne commands. 

The cabbie obeys at once. 

“That’s _not_ a known celebrity spot,” Eames says, as soon as Ariadne has given their hotel name to the cab driver. “I would never have taken us there if—”

“I know, I know,” says Arthur. He squeezes Eames’s hand. Their palms are sweaty. 

“Fuck,” Beth is saying from the front seat. 

“I didn’t think anyone recognized us in there,” Eames says. “I was watching.”

“We were all watching,” says Ariadne. “There were no fan pictures, nothing.” 

“Beth,” says Eames urgently. “Did you tell anyone where we were going? Tweet about it, anything?” 

Beth shakes her head. “No—well, except for Dom. We’re all supposed to tell Dom whenever we go out the night before a show, and where we’re going, so he can decide whether we need security or not.”

“Oops,” says Ariadne.

“Bastard,” says Eames.

“He told Mal,” Arthur concludes grimly. “Fuck, he told Mal, of course he did.” 

“Were we not supposed to go out? Everybody else did,” Beth says. 

“Nobody else is going to show up in the tabloids tomorrow,” Arthur says. _With their secret boyfriend_ , he adds to himself. 

“Are you not supposed to do that, then?” Beth says.

“I am, if Mal has her way,” Arthur says. “I’d prefer if she didn’t.” 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the [ tiniest ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/59864212) in a comment last chapter, which reminded me that now might be a good time to explain why this already listed as a series. (Other than the fact that I couldn't settle on a title and there was no way I was going to post a single chapter without tying this fic to Taylor Swift's best song about being in love with your best friend.) There are a lot of scenes I did not write for pacing purposes, but I have a whole list of them I'd like to write as one-shots this summer. If there is a scene you would like to see, let me know in the comments—no guarantees, but I'll keep any suggestions in mind. 
> 
> As usual, Castillon02 is the best. Pillow logistics are hard, you know? Especially when you have to deal with an author who replies to funny commentary with a reference to an ex-boybander's song that said author doesn't even like. (This fic has gotten me in waaaay too deep.)
> 
> Also, thanks to fandeadgloves for helping me with my Netflix questions!

SINGER ARTHUR COHEN SPOTTED LEAVING POPULAR LONDON NIGHT SPOT

_The day after landing in London, American singer Arthur Cohen (20) was spotted leaving a popular London club with three close pals._

_So close, in fact, that they’re all holding hands! Cohen appears to be holding on tight to one of his backup dancers, (Charles) Eames, as well as to close childhood friend, Ariadne Phillips, as they make their way into a waiting car. An unknown blonde woman, who some sources say is also a member of Cohen’s tour crew, rounds out the quartet._

_Despite clubbing until the wee hours of the morning, the four look none the worse for wear: no drunken stumbles for this lot!_

_The famously private Cohen is reportedly single, but maybe he’ll find love right here in the UK!_

_Let us know if you’ve got tickets to his sold-out UK shows in the comments!_

  


**@jaustin15** : omg THEY’RE HOLDING HANDS #LondonAE 

**@leighay** : can you imagine how hot A/E clubbing must be??? *fans self* #LondonAE

**@georgianawells** : Is this the start? Do you think we’ll get a confirmation while they’re in the UK?!

**@ellengraham** : I can’t believe none of the tabloids are speculating about them… it’s SO OBVIOUS 

**@ellengraham** : Normally at least there’s a ‘this will fuel delusional fan rumours of their romantic relationship’ paragraph 

**@ellengraham** : HA, one benefit of no proper ship name is that the media can’t stick it in their articles/brand us 

**@eamesssfordays** : @ellengraham It’s there, between the lines. Close pals? Can u say no homo (even tho they r both out)? The tabloids know what they’re doing

**@eamesssfordays** : @ellengraham Not to mention “love right here in the UK.” Aka “in case you forgot, E is British” 

**@cassie298** : Petition for @anotherarthur or @eamesss to tweet lyrics from I want to hold your hand :P #LondonAE

  


The morning articles aren’t nearly as bad as Arthur was expecting, and as he hasn’t received any calls (or emails, or texts) from Mal, he and Eames engage in delayed, relieved-slash-celebratory British sex, and Arthur heads to a few quick radio spots before soundcheck. 

Arthur has just answered the standard opening questions for his final interview when the interviewer puts on a serious expression (because even radio interviews are filmed these days) and asks, “Now, Arthur, how do you react to allegations of discord amongst your team?” 

Arthur blinks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sorry. I’m lucky enough to work with a wonderful group of professionals and—”

“So that’s a no comment on the video of your backup dancer that just leaked?” The host raises his eyebrows. 

Arthur glances through the glass of the studio toward the PR rep, but she refuses to meet his gaze.

_Shit_ , Arthur thinks. Whatever this is, it’s not anything good. 

“I don’t know of any video,” says Arthur, as calmly as he can. “My dancers are all—”

“Why don’t I read the highlights to you?” the interviewer interrupts. 

Arthur takes a deep breath and waits. 

“Now, as our listeners might be aware, there’s one particular dancer who has gotten a lot of attention throughout your tour, and for good reason! Eames is _fit_ ,” the interviewer crows. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , Arthur thinks. 

The interviewer clears his throat. “Just an hour ago, _The Sun_ exclusively released video clips of Eames discussing you with an unknown second person, who is also the one filming. In one of clips, seemingly in reply to a question of this other person, Eames says, ‘Arthur? Yeah, I’m still working with that stick-in-the-mud.’ In another, he states that you lack a certain _je ne sais quoi_ —or, the X factor, as we like to say in the UK.” 

Arthur snorts. (He’ll panic in a second, but first: Simon Cowell really does own everyone.) 

(Then he panics. Where is the video from? When is it from? Who was Eames talking to, and why? How did _The Sun_ acquire it? He knows the answer is likely Mal, but how did _Mal_ get it? And—why would Eames say that? Why would Eames _say_ that? It’s not anything particularly cruel, not nearly as shocking as the interviewer made it out to be, but—still. Still.) 

“Well,” says Arthur. Then stops. What the fuck is he supposed to say? The PR rep still won’t look at him. 

“Does this video reveal that behind your buddy-buddy image in public, behind the scenes, it’s a different story?” the interviewer presses, and Arthur suddenly understands Mal’s angle. Even though it’s a stupid one. 

“I’ve never seen this video, so I don’t know what the context is,” Arthur says. “I am fortunate enough to enjoy a friendly relationship with my support team, including Eames. I assure you that if there were ever to be an issue between myself and anyone on the crew, or between any members of the crew—and, for the record, there’s not—it wouldn’t come out in _The Sun_ like this.” Arthur winces. There are so many ways that answer is going to be misconstrued, and he knows it already. “I’m American, and I may have been too young to vote for him, but there’s a reason we elected No-Drama Obama, all right?” 

The interviewer gives a stiff laugh and moves on to the next question. 

  


When he finally gets out of the interview, his phone is blowing up with notifications: texts, Twitter, five missed calls from Eames and two from Ariadne. 

None, he notes, from Mal or Dom. 

_Fuck this_ , he thinks, and texts Mal anyway; he’s too angry to call. 

_To Mal: Thought the deal was that you weren’t going to surprise me with pap walks after the incident at LAX?_

_To Mal: For all you knew we could have gotten completely smashed at that club. We wouldn’t have known not to, because we didn’t think anybody would be taking pictures after._

_To Mal: You’re lucky I’m a responsible guy who just wanted to go back to the hotel with his boyfriend._

_To Mal: Oh! Speaking of! Eames is off limits._

_To Mal: Eames. Is. Off. Limits._

_To Mal: Our relationship isn’t public, and you agreed to help keep it that way. Making more people interested in how we interact doesn’t exactly help with that._

_To Mal: I will do what I need to do for my career in terms of paps, interviews, etc. You know this. You know I’m good for it. But leave Eames out of it._

By the time he’s done, his hands are shaking. 

He’s definitely too keyed-up to read the texts from Ariadne and Eames, and because sometimes dealing with the situation a few degrees removed is easier than dealing with the up-close-and-personal reality, he opens Twitter. 

It’s not pretty. 

**@sammierox** : WTF @eamesss??? You don’t seem to think he’s lacking when you’re all over him during concerts!

**@sethgreene** : Poor A, he must be so hurt! E is NOTHING without A’s fame, this just shows how fake he’s been all along

**@daisyluvsfootie** : Everybody CALM DOWN. A&E were looking super loved-up mere HOURS ago. 

**@daisyluvsfootie** : You’re going to ignore that in favor of a sketchy video from The Sun? 

**@fee27** : .@anotherarthur you’ve definitely got that je sais quoi, don’t worry babe! Don’t listen to @eamesss he’s just jealous #ProtectArthur

**@jeansweet** : A may be a stick in the mud (he’s NOT), but he’s 10000% more talented & hardworking than @eamesss #ProtectArthur

**@jmcoe** : DOES NOBODY ELSE SEE HOW THE TABLOIDS ARE PLAYING US?? Calm. The fuck. Down. 

**@cath4fun** : A is not an idiot. Don’t you think he would know if E really thought this way about him? 

**@barriedi** : 8am: pics of E/A holding hands & looking happy (tho surprised by paps) 11am: supposed video of E going off about A. That’s not sketchy af

**@rainzee** : There’s a narrative here & we don’t know exactly who is in control. Arthur’s been in interviews all morning. Stay cool. 

Arthur texts Eames without listening to his messages or reading the texts Eames sent him while he was in the interview. 

_To Eames: Don’t pay attention to twitter._

_To Eames: They don’t know either of us, or our relationship. We do._

Eames replies almost instantly.

_From Eames: I dunno where you are now or if you can call, but I am so so so so so so so sorry love_

_From Eames: I didn’t mean it at all_

_From Eames: The bastards cut out the follow up which was that YOU ARE THE BEST no matter what Mal/crabby cultural commentators say_

_From Eames: xoxoxoxo_

_From Eames: talk when you get to venue? I know that’s not ideal_

_From Eames: I’m so sorry. Do you want Nash to take my spot tonight?_

The texts have been coming in too quickly for Arthur to attempt to reply, but at this last one, he types out a rapid, _No_.

_To Eames: On my way to venue now. Please dance tonight, it’s never as good without you._

_To Eames: xoxoxoxo_

When Arthur reaches the venue, the only person he wants to see is Eames, but the first person he actually comes across is Robert, flush-faced, his expression torn between shame and reflexive defensiveness. 

“I didn’t realize it would ever get out,” Robert says at once. 

“What?” Arthur stops walking, but he keeps turning his head, looking for Eames. Unless Eames is waiting for him in his dressing room? 

“The video,” says Robert. “It’s from really early on in tour. You had some sort of fan meet-and-greet and I was just messing around with Eames. Because we were supposed to be roommates? Anyway, Mal found out about the video and told me to take it off my phone and give it to her.” 

“So you did, and didn’t think to tell me or Eames,” Arthur says, his voice low. 

“Eames asked me to delete the video, but I’d already given it to Mal and I figured that was the same thing, so I just…”

“Let him think it was taken care of,” Arthur finishes coldly. 

“I didn’t think it’d ever get out,” Robert repeats. “If you watch the whole thing, it’s pretty clear how annoyed Eames is with me and that he means the opposite of what he technically says in the clips _The Sun_ got, so I thought it was pretty safe, since you guys are all hush-hush, you know? I thought Mal would never release it, for that reason.” 

“Fine,” says Arthur. 

“So we’re cool?” Robert asks. 

“I haven’t decided yet,” says Arthur. “Please go away. I need to find Eames.” 

To his credit, Robert vanishes without protest. 

Arthur makes his way to his dressing room, not stopping to talk to anyone else on the way there, although everyone is sending him wary nods and meaningful looks. When he enters his dressing room, Eames is pacing. Ariadne is seated in Arthur’s chair, vigorously scrolling through what appears to be her Twitter feed on a tablet. 

“Arthur,” Eames says at once, crossing the room toward him. 

Arthur meets him halfway and kisses him, briefly but firmly.

“I’ll be outside,” Ariadne says. She shuts the door behind her. 

“I’m so sorry, love,” Eames says, tipping his forehead against Arthur’s.

“I know. It’s okay. Robert explained, just now,” Arthur says. 

“I didn’t mean to make such a mess of this. It’s difficult enough already, without actually giving Mal something to work with,” Eames continues. 

“I know,” Arthur says again. “It’s not your fault. It’s Mal’s. And Robert’s. We’re good.” 

  


**@eamesss** : Isn’t it funny how the rags only release clips without context?

**@eamesss** : Arthur is a dream to work with, and I’m honoured to be part of his tour team. 

**@robertfischer** : Yet another private video leaked by @TheSun. Don’t believe everything (anything) you read in the tabloids. 

  


“Hello London, hello England!” Arthur shouts after the opening number. “I am so happy to be here with all of you tonight. It’s a special night for me, as this is my first show in the UK. I’ll try to make it a good one!” 

(Screams.) 

“It’s also a special night for some members of my team. One of my dancers is British, and I know it means a lot to him to be able to dance this show in his home country.” Arthur will let the fandom do the rest on that one. “Are you ready? This is ‘Labyrinth!’” 

  


**@jamiel** : Not trying to be ignorant, but I don’t get why they don’t confirm their relationship? They are both out as gay… 

**@catbat** : @jamielTroye Sivan is out, has confirmed he has a bf, but keeps the bf’s identity a secret. Arthur hasn’t even said he has a bf…

**@catbat** : @jamiel… point being, he’s not/wouldn’t be the first. Some people really like privacy. 

**@sophiered** : @jamiel We have no idea what A’s management/PR are dictating behind the scenes 

**@mellyfi** : .@jamiel Maybe real celebrity relationships are like real celebrity baby announcements… 

**@mellyfi** : … you wait until you’re out of the danger period to confirm. Give them time. 

**@mellyfi** : If we’d gotten pics of their “first date,” THEN I’d worry it was a stunt. This seems… dare I say it… legit??

**@nightchanges** : @mellyfi lol a music fandom with real relationships?? That’ll be a first, won’t know what to do with myself 

**@evelyncake** : @mellyfi wait we DID get their first date - remember the January dinner date?? oh my god

**@theabee:** Good point @evelyncake, but I can think of at least 5 explanations that still leave us with a real relationship… 

**@theabee** : Maybe A’s team wanted the fauxmance & that was supposed to be the start, but A/E realized they had real chemistry…

**@theabee** : … called off the stunt and waited to see how things would develop naturally between them

**@theabee** : It could also really be what Arthur said it was, and they were just at the wrong place, wrong time, etc. Later they got together.

**@mariatam** : Yeah @theabee, however it started, they went quiet for months & by now we know the difference between fake private and real private

**@mariatam** : This is real private. The January date might just have to be one of those fandom mysteries, like wtf happened in Denver

**@maggiewood** : @mariatam And whatever this Sun video thing is. ARTHUR WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MY MYSTERY/DRAMA FREE FANDOM WTF

**@hannah87** : @maggiewood There is no such thing, sorry! 

  


After the first show, most of the crew gets a bit of a break while Arthur shoots the ‘Can’t Stay’ music video. Ariadne keeps the fandom supplied with making-of stills; Eames does another photo shoot. 

Arthur gets a two-day break between the video shoot and the next concert, which he and Ariadne (along with Eames and various crew combinations) use to check a few more items off their list: the British Museum, the Museum of London, the British Library, and a play at the Globe. Ariadne has realized that the best way to keep Mal happy is to tweet everything, so they do, but only after they’ve left each location. 

Arthur uses the same strategy when he’s recognized in public, which is happening with increasing frequency. He’ll take a quick picture with the fan, but ask them not to post for a few hours. Most everyone complies, and Ariadne reports that those who don’t are viciously ostracized by the rest of the fandom. Arthur is more than a little concerned when he hears about this (“I can’t condone online harassment, even—especially—when it’s done in my name”), but Ariadne convinces him not to get involved (“There’s a time and a place for inserting yourself into a fandom conversation, and now is not it.” “But it’s my fandom.” “Well, yes, sort of…” “What do you mean, ‘sort of?’” “There’s some stuff that’s meant for you, and some parts that are just for fellow fans. Let them sort this out on their own.”). 

Arthur is careful to post no pictures of him and Eames alone, or even him, Ari, and Eames, but he still takes them for his personal collection. The fandom—or, as Ariadne likes to remind him, not the whole fandom, but the shipping faction—is nevertheless keenly aware that Eames is with them, because Eames is in all the group shots, and that keeps everyone pretty well satisfied. 

  


“Is your sister going to come to a concert?” Arthur asks.

They’re in Arthur’s dressing room, getting ready for the second show. The stylists have given up on pretending that Eames doesn’t use Arthur’s dressing room instead of the common one the other dancers share. 

“The Hyde Park one,” Eames confirms, stripping off his warm-up t-shirt and pulling on his shirt for the opening numbers. 

“Have Ari give her a pass,” Arthur says. “So she can come backstage before, after, whenever.” 

“Will do,” says Eames. “Wycombe doesn’t get out until July 1, but she’s getting special permission to leave. Lucky for us, she doesn’t take her GCSEs until next year.” 

“Wycombe?”

“Wycombe Abbey. Her boarding school,” says Eames. 

“Are your parents going to come?” Arthur asks carefully. 

“They’re not in the country at the moment,” Eames says, his voice tight. 

Arthur drops it. 

  


The next day is a rest day, and Arthur comes back from afternoon interviews in high spirits. The interviews went well; a third of the questions had actually been about the music; he’s in London with Eames and Ariadne. What more could he ask for? 

When he enters their room, however, it’s empty. 

He checks his phone: nothing from Eames.

Not that Eames needs to tell him where he’s going to be every second of the day, of course, but Eames generally lets him know when he’s meeting with his London mates, or his agent, or is away for an audition or a photo shoot—all of which happen fairly frequently when Arthur is tied up in interviews. But Eames hadn’t mentioned anything, and Arthur is back, and they have the whole rest of the evening to themselves… 

Arthur realizes he’s being silly—Eames got a last-minute call about something, or went to the ice machine, or _anything_ , and he will be back eventually. In the meantime, Arthur turns on the TV. He can’t remember the last time he went on Twitter for real news, not just fan service. He’s probably missed several countries’ election results at this point. 

The BBC anchor is still talking about a parliamentary procedure Arthur doesn’t understand when the door opens and Eames walks in, his gym shirt clinging to his chest. He’s holding himself stiffly, tension radiating from his body in a way that indicates he wasn’t able to reach that post-workout high. 

“Hey,” says Arthur. 

“Hi,” says Eames. His voice, though flat, still manages to convey surprise. 

“I just got back.” 

“Right. Interviews,” says Eames, still in that strange tone. 

“One of them actually asked me about ‘Faking It,’” says Arthur, just to say something to cover his confusion. “Nobody ever asks me about that one.” 

For a long moment, Eames doesn’t reply. Finally, he says, “I’m going to shower.” 

“Okay,” says Arthur. 

Eames grabs clean clothes from the dresser (an unusual move) and disappears into the bathroom. 

_It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before_ , Arthur thinks about saying, but doesn’t. 

Eames is not prone to taking long showers, but the sound of the water goes on and on, and even after the water shuts off, even after what Arthur imagines to be a reasonable amount of time in which to dry off and dress, Eames does not emerge. Unlike Arthur, Eames does not have a lengthy or exacting post-shower routine. Arthur does not know how Eames keeps his photoshoot-ready skin, he really doesn’t, and any other day he’d dwell on his fond jealousy over this fact, but today he sits crossed-legged against the pillows and worries. 

He turns the TV off, then turns it back on again, but lowers the volume. He doesn’t want to look like he’s forcing Eames to talk, but clearly something is off. 

When Eames finally emerges from the bathroom, his shoulders are still tense, but looser than they were, and he smiles when he sees Arthur on the bed (although the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes). 

Arthur doesn’t know what to say. He’s trapped between pretending this is all normal and giving Eames an opening, between giving Eames an out and indicating that Arthur is willing to listen, and surely he needs to say _something_ to break the silence, but _hey_ and _good workout?_ and _any preferences for dinner?_ tangle in his throat, and he says nothing. 

Eames drops onto the bed beside him and turns his face into a pillow, his eyes shut. 

“How’s the world?” he asks, his voice muffled. 

It takes a moment for Arthur to realize he is referring to the news program still quietly going on in the background. “Still pretty fucked up,” Arthur says. 

“I’m shocked,” says Eames. He takes a few deep breaths, turns his head to face Arthur, and opens his eyes. “Sorry. How were the interviews?” 

“They were fine,” says Arthur, still unsure. 

“Anybody ask you about the rainbow lights?” 

“No,” says Arthur. “Tumblr continues to be delighted, though.” 

“Tumblr is reliable like that,” says Eames. Arthur can tell that he means to say it lightly, but he can’t quite pull it off. 

Arthur turns off the TV. 

“Eames,” he begins, helplessly, because he doesn’t understand what happened between their lazy round of morning sex and Arthur’s return from the interviews to make Eames tense, unsmiling. 

Eames’s mouth tightens, and he presses his face back into the pillow. “I didn’t get a part.” 

“Oh,” says Arthur, “that’s”—but Eames interrupts him before he can continue. 

“I sent in a video audition a few weeks ago, and I had a Skype callback the first week we were here, and there was maybe going to be another one, a chemistry read, when we’re back in L.A., but my agent called today, and. They don’t want me.”

“I’m sorry,” says Arthur at once. 

“Just, _fuck_ ,” Eames says, as if Arthur hadn’t spoken. He lifts his head, sitting up just enough to stare straight ahead toward the now-dark television. “I wanted this part. I really, really wanted it, and sometimes I can pretend that, like, I don’t book jobs because I’m not really trying? Because I didn’t really want them, they weren’t really for me, that sort of thing?” Eames snorts. “Well, I wanted this one. I wanted it so badly—do you know how it feels, to want something that much? It’s—thrilling, but fucking terrifying because _what if you don’t get it_ , what if you don’t get to have this thing, and I don’t know why people go on about happiness; trying only makes you vulnerable.” 

Arthur is having trouble breathing, for a number of reasons. First, because Eames is hurting. Second, because Eames knows how much Arthur wants—and that somehow, impossibly, Arthur has always won, at least when it really mattered. Third… because what is a relationship, if not an attempt at happiness, in all the ways that make people the most vulnerable? 

Eames keeps talking. “It was for a new Netflix show, and I loved that, because people get excited about that, and the culture and community around their shows is so strong and engaged and I wanted to be part of that, if I could. Also, it was sci-fi, and, you know, a big franchise is never going to cast me, but I thought this would be a really solid opportunity to work within that genre because I don’t get to, as a model or dancer. And my character—my would-be character—is gay, and they told me the arc; he gets a happy ending. He gets a boyfriend, and it’s just, fuck the rest of the disaster happening around them, they’re happy together. And that never happens. I wanted to be a part of that.” 

“Fuck tragic queer endings,” says Arthur softly, when it seems like Eames is done talking, and wraps his arms around Eames, holding their bodies together, placing a light kiss on Eames’s forehead. 

Eames’s answering laugh is shaky. 

“Hey,” says Arthur. “You know who else is not part of a tragic queer story?” 

“Honestly, no one is coming to mind,” Eames says. 

“Us,” says Arthur, and hopes that it’s true: that despite the rest of the disaster around them—Mal’s scheming and the industry’s general homophobia and the public’s different-but-still-damaging homophobia—they’re happy together. 

“Yeah?” Eames says. It comes out a question. 

“Yes,” says Arthur. He’ll make sure of it. 

“You get what you want,” Eames says, after a beat. 

Arthur, too, hesitates. “I do,” he says. “And I want you.” 

“Even when I can’t even make it to the chemistry read for a job I really, really want?” 

“Yes,” says Arthur, his voice firm. “They’re idiots for not picking you, but there are probably always going to be idiots in control in our various industries, and I am going to be here even when they are idiots specifically in your direction. Of _course_ I am.”

He wishes he could tell Eames that there will be another show—another non-tragic gay character for him to play—but of course he can’t. There might not be, at least for a while. 

“You’re amazing,” Arthur says instead. “You’re wonderful and hard-working and talented and any show would be lucky to have you.”

“It’s a pity you’re a singer, not a casting director,” Eames says. He looks up and (at last) meets Arthur’s gaze. “This is not me advocating for a career change, by the way, darling.” 

“Good to know,” says Arthur, less wryly than he might have under other circumstances. 

Eames sighs. “I just really, really wanted the part.”

“I know,” says Arthur. He shifts to grasp Eames’s hand. “I’m sorry you didn’t get it.” 

“Yeah. Okay.” Eames nods. “I’ll get over it. This is… a mourning period, but there will be other auditions, and also I really love my current job—have I mentioned that lately, darling? There’s this upstart pop star I’m dancing for who is extremely hot—and I’ll get over it. Except you’re only allowed to say bad things about whatever wanker eventually lands it.” 

“Okay,” Arthur agrees easily. 

“So agreeable,” says Eames. “I don’t know how you got this reputation as an exacting, somewhat cold dictator of a singer.” 

“Only somewhat? Please, you’re being generous,” says Arthur. 

“Maybe I’m saying that you’re easy for me, sweetheart,” says Eames. 

“Maybe I am,” says Arthur, and he judges the mood light enough to say, “Want to non-tragically queer kiss for a while, and then non-tragically queer order dinner?” 

“Non-tragically queer light of my life, I do,” says Eames. 


	12. Chapter 12

They finish up the smaller shows, then have a few days’ break for sightseeing and vocal rest and, for Arthur, meetings with London-based songwriters who might like to work on his next album. (His next album, yikes.) The meetings aren’t writing sessions, just ‘getting to know you’ talks. Everyone makes sly, pointed allusions to Arthur having a reason to spend more time in the UK; no one mentions Eames by name. 

He and Eames even manage to make it to a gay club with some of Eames’s theatre friends. Ariadne pretends that they all want to do the Eye again, this time at night, and so they manage to leave the hotel without rousing Dom’s suspicions. Ariadne, Yusuf, and a few of the other techies split off, leaving Eames and Arthur in the clear for a pap-free night out.

“Promise they won’t hate me?” Arthur asks in those last precious minutes in the cab, alone with Eames. 

“They won’t hate you, pet,” Eames says. 

“But…” says Arthur. “They do Shakespeare. I sing Top 40. I _am_ Top 40.” 

“As a wise man once said, _most of us just like good shit_ ,” said Eames. 

“Eames.”

“So what? Adele’s Top 40 and she’s won every award there is to win and is extremely well respected to boot,” says Eames. 

“She’s _Adele_ ,” Arthur whines. “She’s, you know, personable. People like her.” 

“People like you.” 

“ _Eames._ ” 

“You make art, just like they do. And people love what you make, and art doesn’t lose legitimacy just because it makes money. Also—and this is really what matters for the purposes of tonight—I like you, and that’s not going to change, even if you and the lads don’t become best mates.” 

Arthur takes a deep breath. “You only said ‘lads’ to sound extra British.” 

“Maybe,” says Eames, squeezing his hand. 

“I’m not good at the whole… making friends thing,” Arthur ventures. “Like, you get that, right? Before you, it was just me and Ariadne for a long time. Since forever.” 

“I know, and I’m not sure why nobody else tried hard enough to get in on that, but I’m selfishly glad they didn’t succeed,” says Eames. “Besides, you do all right. You go to industry events all the time.” 

“That’s networking, that’s business,” says Arthur. “I don’t want to network with your friends. I don’t want to—I don’t even like those events, for the most part. I enjoy them as a means to an end. This is… me and my boyfriend and his friends at a club.” 

“It’s going to be fine,” says Eames. “And if you’re really uncomfortable, we’ll go, okay? We don’t need to stay if you’re not having fun. I just wanted you to meet them.”

“Sorry,” Arthur winces. “Sorry, sorry, these are your friends, you’ve been so good with Ariadne and my mom, of course I want to meet them, they’re important to you.”

“Darling…” 

“I just want them to, like, approve, that’s all,” says Arthur. 

“You’re extremely talented, insanely hot, and have never left me stranded in the middle of nowhere. None of my exes managed all three of those things, so you’re a shoo-in for their vote,” says Eames. 

“I feel very reassured,” says Arthur dryly. 

“Good,” says Eames. “Because we’re here.” 

They pay the cabbie, and Eames goes right up to the bouncer, who lets them in while Arthur is still taking in the neighborhood. 

The next several minutes are a blur while he’s introduced to four British guys in their early twenties, three of whom have stupidly posh names, and they acquire the first round of drinks and settle in at a booth. To start, there’s some of what Arthur assumes to be the usual male banter around committed relationships and their sexual endeavors, and Arthur laughs where appropriate and lets Eames steer the conversation. 

“You must understand,” says the one Arthur thinks is Alasdair, “we’re happy for Eames and we’re happy for the two of you, but you’ve stolen him a bit, haven’t you? So you need to start working with Imogen Heap here so we can have him back.” 

“I’ll get right on that,” Arthur says, while Eames says, “We’re here now, aren’t we? Anyway, you can’t knock L.A., I’ve learned how to surf and you bastards are stuck in London fog.” 

The talk turns to Rupert’s (or Rex’s? Arthur can’t remember which is which) latest role, and Arthur is forcibly reminded that he hadn’t seen a non-school Shakespeare production—a non-school anything theater production—until they went to the Globe. He keeps waiting for one of them to call him on it, to quiz him on some fine point of upper-crust cultural knowledge, to out him for the imposter he is. 

There are so many games to play. Pretending that he’s old enough to be doing this, so people take him seriously. Pretending that he belongs in the top tiers of the industry, even though he got his start on a reality show, even though the idea of owning a suit worth several thousand dollars (much less multiple, and never mind if he actually paid for them or if they were given to him as part of a promotion deal) would have been absurd, foreign, utterly unthinkable only a short time before. Pretending he and Eames aren’t together, just so he doesn’t have to play yet another game with their relationship. Eliminating any mannerisms Mal decides are too _camp_ , even though he’s out.

He thinks about what Alasdair said: _so we can have him back_.

Eames was theirs first, and they expected him to return. Eames belongs to their world—to London, and theatre, and expensive boarding schools that call themselves “public” when they really mean “private”—not to his. And Arthur will only ever be a fake in Eames’s world. 

He knows there are plenty of other stars who come from middle-class backgrounds. Hell, he knows there are some who (somehow, impossibly) come from poverty. Arthur knows that, all things considered, he comes from a privileged background: he never worried about having money for food or school supplies or a new pair of tennis shoes. His mom paid for extracurricular activities, and Arthur had access to enough information about colleges to know which schools offered good financial aid to middle-class students. 

But that feels like nothing compared to people who can casually speak about their parents’ vacation homes in France, as Rex (or Rupert?) has just done. Then, of course, Arthur feels ashamed, because his mom is wonderful and raised him essentially by herself, and he has no right to feel that what she could provide for him (which was more than enough, really) was lesser. 

Arthur resolves to make a list of people in the industry that he could reasonably expect to agree to walk him through the social class transition nonsense. God knows Mal wouldn’t understand feeling like he didn’t belong because he still knew the price of a gallon of milk. 

Alasdair comes back with another round. 

“Arthur, mate,” says John, the only one without a name that Arthur automatically assumes takes tea with the Queen, “we’re dying to know if he’s the same in the States as he is here. Does he still wear shoes without socks unless absolutely necessary?” 

“Yes,” says Arthur, a little confused. 

“Okay, I’ve got one,” says Rex/Rupert. “Is he still incapable of passing up a ‘that’s what she said’ joke?”

“Yes,” says Arthur.

“So are you, X,” Eames says, resolving Arthur’s confusion about their names. 

“Don’t listen to a word of it,” the maligned Rex says to Arthur. 

“Does he still take forever in the bathroom, but when he leaves, you can’t tell that he’s spent that time doing anything at all?” Alasdair asks. 

“No,” says Arthur. Eames wraps an arm around his shoulder.

Four jaws drop.

“Fuck you,” says Alasdair to Eames. To Arthur, he says, “I shared a bathroom with this one for _two years_. Hell, I tell you. And now I learn you’ve gone and reformed him.” 

“Wasn’t me,” says Arthur. 

“Was a little bit you,” Eames corrects. Arthur turns his head so he can see Eames’s face; it’s dark in the club, even in the booths area, but he thinks he can detect a faint blush, one separate from the flush brought on by body heat and alcohol. 

“What?” 

“Our fifteen-minute thing, before I just moved into your room,” says Eames. “You said fifteen minutes, so I… I was determined to have the maximum amount of time with you possible, and then it sort of stuck, because why waste time in the bathroom when you were waiting for me in the bedroom?” 

By the time Eames finishes, Arthur is at least as pink as he is, and all of Eames’s friends are laughing. 

“Shut up,” Eames says good-naturedly. 

John shakes his head, as if resigned. “You’re stupidly good together and you’ll take over Posh and Becks’ spot once you go public.” 

Arthur tenses, and John must notice, because he adds, “Not that I blame you for keeping quiet. I wouldn’t want my body analyzed for love-bites every time I left my flat.”

“I’ll drink to that,” says Eames. 

When Rupert stands to get the next round, Eames decides to use the bathroom, and Rex follows him, leaving Alasdair, John, and Arthur alone together at the booth. 

“Look,” says John, “this is a little bit awkward, but someone has to say it, so I will. We were all worried about him going off to the States by himself, especially when it turned out his flatmates were complete dickheads, so thanks for having his back. Even before you two got together.” 

For a moment, Arthur can do nothing but blink at them. “Of course,” he says. “Always. And he’s had mine.” 

“Now that that’s out of the way,” begins Alasdair, who folds his hands together and leans forward toward Arthur. “Are you planning on dropping him when you win a Grammy?” 

“What the _fuck_ ,” says Arthur. “No.” Then, with a cold sense of dread mixing with the alcohol in his stomach: “Did he tell you that?” 

John holds his hands up, palms open. “We have to check. As far as we’re concerned, you’re—”

“—an upstart, new money pop star from a reality show with no sense of loyalty because I’m too busy breaking into the 16-to-25 market?” Arthur snaps. 

John’s eyes widen. “I was going to say young, and new to _everything_ —fame, adulthood, relationships, whatever.”

“Gee, thanks,” says Arthur. 

“You’re an unknown element, that’s all,” Alasdair says. “We know Eames. We don’t want him to get hurt, especially not by an American he works with. You can’t begrudge us that.” 

“I don’t,” Arthur admits. 

Alasdair narrows his eyes. “Eames is very talented.” 

“I know?” says Arthur. “I’ve worked with him for six months now.” 

“Good,” says Alasair. 

“Are _you_ going to drop him when you’re awarded your OBE?” Arthur asks. 

John smiles and pokes Alasdair. “No, we’re not.” 

“Okay then,” says Arthur. “Try extending the same courtesy to me.”

“Are you waiting to win a Grammy before you go public, though?” Alasdair asks. 

“I’m waiting until we both agree it’s the right time,” says Arthur. “I haven’t been calculating awards season into that.” 

“A bit surprising, that,” says Alasair. “You seem like the kind of guy who calculates everything.” 

“Not Eames,” says Arthur firmly. “Not in that way. My career is off to a solid start, I’m out—I’m trying to protect what we have, not ruin it.” 

“Everything all right here?” Eames asks, appearing beside the booth, Rex at his heels. 

“Yup,” says Arthur. 

“We’re good,” says John, nodding at Arthur before turning to Eames. “Marveling at your ability to pull a fit guy you met outside the lift. Only you, mate.” 

Eames rests a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Rupert got distracted at the bar by a pretty bloke with red hair.”

“That’s it, we’ve lost him,” John says knowingly. 

“Care to dance, Mr. Cohen?” Eames asks. 

Arthur allows himself to be tugged out of the booth. “Still not up for bathroom orgasms,” he whispers in Eames’s ear. 

And then they’re dancing, and all the space they have to keep between them on stage disappears, no one is watching them, no one cares who they are, they’re just two guys in a sweaty, grinding mass of other guys—

When Arthur realizes this, he pulls Eames into a messy kiss. 

He’s never been to a gay club before, or a gay bar, or a gay anything. He wasn’t even part of his high school’s GSA because it met during the free SAT prep class offered by the guidance counselors. 

But here, now: there are no wrinkled noses (or worse), no expressions of disapproval (hastily repressed or not), no second glances (except to catch the eye of someone you’d like to buy a drink or dance with next). He’s not an oddity, pointedly accepted to show off everybody else’s evolved, liberal views. He’s the norm. 

“All good?” Eames asks, speaking loudly, despite the scant inches between them, in order to be heard over the music. 

“I’m glad we came here,” says Arthur. 

Eames grins and slides his hands further down Arthur’s back. 

  


This time, they actually manage to have post-club sex immediately after arriving back at the hotel.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of homophobic acts at large (i.e. in the world generally, not specifically directed at any characters).

At fifteen, Elizabeth Eames is nearly as tall as her brother. Her hair is pulled back in an impeccable French braid and while, like Eames, her cheekbones are not particularly prominent, there’s a freckle high on her left cheek that manages to give the illusion of them anyway. All in all, Arthur would be very intimidated were it not for the Pits & Perverts t-shirt from Gay’s The Word. 

“Nice shirt,” says Arthur. 

Elizabeth looks up him up and down; he’s already dressed for the opening. “Nice suit.” 

“My sister, Elizabeth,” says Eames unnecessarily. “My boyfriend, Arthur.” 

Arthur feels a grin tugging across his face, his automatic reaction whenever Eames uses the word ‘boyfriend.’ 

Elizabeth turns to Eames. “I don’t get to say this very often—this may actually be a first—but it turns out you occasionally have good taste.” 

“Thanks,” says Eames. He gives Arthur a quick peck on the lips. 

Elizabeth wrinkles her nose. “This is so weird. Sorry. Like, you’re from TV. And now you’re dating my brother.” 

“I am… real,” Arthur ventures. He coughs. Eames did so well with the whole ‘meeting the family’ thing, and Arthur needs to step it up. “I’m really glad you were able to make it, and that we could meet.” 

“Me too,” says Elizabeth. “Um.” She blushes. “Can we take a picture? Sorry, that’s really fangirl-y, but, uh, can we anyway?” 

“Of course,” says Ariadne, slipping behind Elizabeth right on cue. “The three of you?”

Elizabeth hesitates, and her tone is a wrenching mixture of hopeful and resigned as she says, “I won’t put it on Twitter.” 

Arthur looks to Ariadne. “Go ahead.” He turns to Eames. “Yeah?” 

Eames’s expression is unreadable. “Whatever you’d like, love.” 

“The four of us, then,” says Ariadne, holding out her hand for Elizabeth’s phone. 

  


**@elizabetheames** : Backstage with @anotherarthur @ariadneisamaze & the best big brother ever @eamesss! pic.twitter 

**@arthurcohenlove** : is their whole family model gorgeous? @elizabetheames @eamesss 

**@britishbifriends** : holy shit maybe they are going to confirm in the UK. A just met E’s little sister!!! 

**@lilypotts** : For those of you just tuning in, gravityneverlookedsogood on tumblr has a really great timeline: link.tumblr 

**@queerblue57** : Loving the support from @elizabetheames! #HydePark people: bring your #pride flags! 

  


“Hello, London!” Arthur calls, looking out over the crowd assembled in Hyde Park. “This is my first outdoor concert, so you’ll have to forgive me if I end up being distracted by a grasshopper or something at some point. I’ll do my best to stay focused.” 

“We love you, Arthur!” someone shrieks above the din. 

“It’s a really great week to be in London—not that it isn’t always a great week to be in London—but this week is extra-special, and I’m really glad to be here this year for Pride Week.” 

Arthur pauses for the screams, scanning the audience for the pride flags Ariadne assured him the fans were organizing. He spots at least a dozen while he waits for the crowd to settle (as much as it ever does, that is). 

“And because it’s Pride Week, I thought we’d mix up the show a bit,” Arthur continues. “I did a poll with my dancers and musicians, and they picked some of their favorite pride songs for us to do in place of our usual covers tonight. Are you ready?” 

  


**@surreypride** : .@anotherarthur dedicated the #HydePark concert to all the LGBTQ+ activists & musicians who came before him

**@libbyrey** : Arthur in #HydePark: I Will Survive, Brave, She Keeps Me Warm, This Charming Man #LondonPride 

**@sallyandbooks** : Arthur changed the lyrics to HE keeps me warm. Coy glances at E. #HydePark pic.twitter 

**@arthurandddeames** : Sooo which cover did @eamesss pick? (I guess This Charming Man lol) 

**@jadejazz** : I can’t believe @anotherarthur covered Brave. He’s the one denying his relationship with another man. Hypocrite. 

**@tomalan78** : @jadejazz A. has NEVER explicitly denied his relationship w/ E. He doesn’t owe anyone insight into his private relationships. 

**@pinkninja** : Great to see all the #pride flags at #HydePark! Let’s make #Glastonbury even more rainbow!!! 

  


For once, Eames doesn’t stick around while Arthur meets with fans after the show, but Arthur can’t begrudge him more time with Elizabeth. 

He and Eames haven’t talked about what they’re going to do—where they’re going to live—once tour is over. Eames’s family—the part that counts, anyway—is in England; Arthur’s mom is in California. New York would be a decent compromise in terms of pure flight time, but making their families equally inconvenient to visit doesn’t seem ideal. 

  


**@nickpark** : Unpopular opinion, but… why does Arthur only support gay causes, etc.? Why is he their icon, etc., as opposed to… 

**@nickpark** : …military kids, kids of single parents, etc.? He could do so much for these groups but ignores them in favor of being trendy. 

**@madhattter** : .@nickpark There are about a thousand things wrong with that, but let me begin with:

**@madhattter** : 1. Read a fucking history book. Pick up a newspaper. People have been/are killed, abused, fired, etc. for this TRENDY identity 

**@madhattter** : 2. It is ARTHUR’s choice what causes he wishes to support PUBLICLY. We have no idea what he supports more quietly. 

**@madhattter** : Is it really inconceivable that maybe he doesn’t want to talk about his dad’s death, but does want to insist on his right to love? 

**@madhattter** : Also consider that not speaking on these topics could be out of respect for his MUM’s privacy as well 

**@madhattter** : Arthur is under no obligation to be everything to everyone. In other news: Buy #WithinADream on iTunes! 

  


Arthur isn’t performing at Glastonbury until the final night, so they arrange to go to some of the shows the day before. With plenty of other celebrities flitting around, he’s able to remain fairly inconspicuous, and it’s a nice change to be back in the audience for a while. 

What sucks is having to be aware of how close he’s standing to Eames at any—every—given moment. Of how he’s looking at Eames, and smiling at Eames, and decidedly not holding Eames’s hand. Arthur keeps spotting other young couples in the crowd, gripping each other tightly and—Arthur wants that. He wants that and he’s fucking _out_ and why can’t he have that, too? 

_Mal_ , he reminds himself. _She’ll make_ Hollywood Reporter _say Eames is cheating on you one week and send you shopping for engagement rings the next. Don’t blow this just because you want to hold his hand at a festival._

Four hours before he’s scheduled to go on, Arthur cracks and assembles his musicians and backup singers. “Does everybody know ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand?’ And if you don’t, can you by show time?” 

“The fandom is going to think you’re watching them,” Eames comments, after Arthur ends the meeting and sends everyone off to practice. 

“I am watching them,” says Arthur. “Or Ariadne is, anyway.” 

“Some of them tweeted about the song, after… what are we calling it? Club-gate?” 

Arthur snorts. “Please God never let me have an actual story with a -gate involved.” 

“Spoilsport,” says Eames, as he grabs Arthur’s hand. “Seriously, though.” 

“Seriously…” says Arthur. “I want to sing it. Unless you don’t want me to.” 

“I want you to sing whatever you want to sing,” says Eames. “That’s always going to be my answer.” 

  


**@anotherarthur** : Soundcheck at #Glastonbury! pic.twitter

**@madelinehill** : #ArthurGlastonbury folks IF YOU DO NOT HAVE YOUR PRIDE FLAGS I WILL COME DOWN FROM SCOTLAND & KICK YOUR ARSES 

  


“Hello, Glastonbury!” Arthur shouts. “Thank you for having me tonight—and England, thank you for having me for these past couple of weeks. It’s been a blast, and I couldn’t have asked for a better welcome.” He ambles along the edge of the stage. “So there are two important things about today. The first is, of course, that you’re here and I’m here and it’s the last night of Glastonbury, so let’s make it loud!” (Cheers.) “The second.” Arthur pauses. “The second is that exactly a year ago, the U.S. Supreme Court declared that gay marriage was, had to be, legal in every state. I was on tour for _The Voice_ that day, and I just remember sitting in the hotel room and on the bus and backstage just staring at my phone, reading every article I could, because. Because even though _I_ knew that I was a, a full person, and that my choice of life partner would be just as valid and real as anybody else’s, it means something when the highest court of your country recognizes that identity and your right to that choice.” 

The crowd is as quiet as it ever gets. There’s a light wind, and Arthur is suddenly grateful it’s an outdoor concert—despite the annoyances of bugs and variable temperatures and changing sun angles—because the breeze flutters the pride flags, the dancing colors catching Arthur’s eyes. 

“I tweeted something that day, something innocuous, #LoveWins. And writing that tweet killed me because I knew I wasn’t being completely honest. I wasn’t out to the public yet, so I couldn’t say that I’d spent an hour that morning scrolling through Twitter, looking at all the pictures of the people outside the Court when the decision was announced and crying, and an hour on the phone with my mom, and another hour on the phone with my best friend, and both of them were so happy and so supportive and it was such a joyful day. It was such a joyful day and I couldn’t share exactly what that day, that decision, meant to me.” He stops to breathe for a moment, clear his throat. Pretend like he isn’t on the verge of breaking down all over again. “And one of the things that was so amazing to watch online was how supportive citizens of other countries were. You all in particular—you’d had marriage equality for nearly a year and a half, almost two years if you’re counting from the day the legislation passed—you were so happy for us. That meant a lot, too. So consider this my long-belated tweet, several thousand characters over the limit.” He huffs out a laugh. “We’re going to start with ‘Elephant in the Room’ tonight, but know this: it’s not the elephant in the room anymore. I’m gay, and I’m proud to share that part of me with all of you.” 

  


**@avam44** : Did anybody else think A was going to make the boyfriends announcement during that speech? #Glastonbury 

**@jonathanko** : Look how happy @anotherarthur is to be out, how much it means to him—imagine the song intros once A/E is public! 

**@purplesocks** : Everybody stop saying you wish A/E had gone public tonight. A doesn’t owe us a public relationship…

**@purplesocks** : … it astounds me how people in this fandom think they know A better than he knows himself. Yes, there could be mgmt shadiness as per usual…

**@purplesocks** : … but A is also really, really private. He’s spoken about how conflicted he was about coming out early in his career 

**@purplesocks** : If you really love him, you’ll respect his decisions. He makes sure we still get our cute onstage moments… he knows what he’s doing 

**@kirandco** : idk how anybody can say A is a private person. He’s all over twitter

**@driarain** : @kirandco He’s on tour, doing promo. He & E haven’t interacted online since early April

**@driarain** : @kirandco He never posts truly random selfies, thoughts, etc. We’ve never seen anything from his apt

**@driarain** : @kirandco Ariadne is his old bestie, yes, but she’s also here to convince us he’s a Real Boy… don’t forget she’s part of his tour team 

**@markdavids** : Right @driarain. When he’s not doing pretty obvious promo, it’s like he doesn’t exist. (Adele + others do this too)

  


For the record, the welcome-back-to-L.A. sex is just as good as it was the first time. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schedule update: Chapter 15 should go up on Sunday as per usual. Unfortunately, Castillon02 and I are real people with non-fandom obligations, and it will be logistically impossible (I'm talking no computer/Internet impossible) for me to post Chapter 16 on Wednesday (or before). Unless something unexpected comes up, it will be posted Thursday.

They have a two-week break before they leave for the final leg of tour. Eames spends the entirety of the break shooting his scenes for a three-episode arc of _How to Get Away With Murder_. 

Arthur is incredibly proud of and excited for Eames, of course, but it’s also weird to not be working when Eames is. Arthur makes a couple of short videos for his mostly-abandoned YouTube channel. He brings Ariadne on for the “Arthur answers your questions” one, mostly because there are a lot of teenagers wanting life advice, and Ariadne’s life advice is always far superior to his. (Also, Arthur is Exhibit A for ‘how following Ariadne’s life advice will get you a career and a boyfriend.’ Not that he’s going to mention the boyfriend bit.) 

Arthur sleeps in and writes a bit—nothing too serious, but a couple of chorus ideas that could become something, once tour is over. He doesn’t want to distract himself too much with new material while he’s still singing the old—the current—a few times a week. He spends time with his mom and Ariadne’s parents and it is so, so strange to not have thousands of people screaming at him every night. 

  


A week into the break, they’re lying in bed as Eames finishes telling some story about Alfie Enoch on set. 

“I’d like to meet him,” says Arthur.

“Come on set sometime. I’ll clear it with whoever,” says Eames at once. 

“Really?”

“Darling, of course. People’s friends and family visit all the time. And it’s all locked down to prevent spoiler leaks,” Eames adds.

“Right,” says Arthur. He rolls on his side so he’s properly facing Eames. “I was thinking… after tour ends.” 

“I’m only filming until we go on tour again,” says Eames.

“No, I meant. Going public. Together,” says Arthur. “We meant to check in, after England? And… that’s my answer. What about after tour ends?” 

“Oh,” says Eames. “Oh, darling.” Kiss. “Yes.” Kiss. “Absolutely.” Kiss. “Yes.” Kiss. 

“You can wait, until October?” Arthur confirms. 

“Yes,” says Eames. 

“You won’t get to be my date for the VMAs,” says Arthur. 

“Next year,” says Eames.

“Next year,” Arthur agrees, grinning. He finds Eames’s hand under the covers, squeezes it. 

“And you’re sure? You want to do this?” Eames says. 

“I do,” says Arthur. “I am. We’re… God, Eames. We’re so solid, what does it matter what the press says? And we’re so fucking obvious. And sooner or later Mal is going to say, screw this, you’re basically out, no more stalling—”

“Hang on,” Eames interrupts. “I don’t want you to do this because you think Mal is going to out us anyway.” 

“I want us to control the story. Or, as much as possible,” says Arthur. “It’s going to suck, a lot, probably. There are going to be stupid rumors and we’re going to just… have to be really honest and clear with each other, but—”

“Health class communication couple,” Eames finishes for him. 

“Right,” says Arthur. “I.” He stops. Because what he was going to say was, _I love you and I want everyone to know about it_ , but. They’ve only been dating for a few months. It’s way too early to say that, isn’t it?

(Also: oh God. He loves Eames. He loves him. He is in love with Eames.)

“Darling?” Eames prompts. 

“I am very happy and very proud to be with you,” Arthur says instead. “And I want to be honest.”

“You don’t owe the public anything,” Eames cautions. 

“I want to be honest. For me, for us,” says Arthur. “I just. I want to go to the fucking farmers’ market with you and hold your hand, all right? And if that means dealing with even more Twitter hate and more paps and more _whatever_ —then bring it on.” 

“L.A. farmers’ markets won’t know what hit them,” says Eames. “We are going to be the best farmers’ market hand-holders in the history of people who have held hands at farmers’ markets.”

“Shut up,” says Arthur. 

“Make me,” says Eames.

_I love you_ , Arthur thinks. 

  


The next morning, with Eames off to film again, Arthur cleans and does laundry. He calls his mom; he calls Ariadne. He thinks about the _Attitude_ cover that’s still pinned to his corkboard. 

Arthur calls Mal. 

Mal calls _Out_. 

  


As planned, his mom flies out for his D.C. shows, and they go to Arlington Cemetery together. Eames awkwardly asked if Arthur wanted him to go with (“Of course you probably just want it to be you and your mum, I understand that, but if you wanted me to go, or, or ride with you but not go to the—you know, whatever you want, darling, I’ll do it”), but Arthur declined, saying simply, “Next time?” 

The visit to Arlington is hard. 

There’s just—there’s so much to tell, and how can Arthur possibly hope to summarize the—unexpected, joyous—craziness his life has become? 

“He’d be really proud of you, you know,” Arthur’s mom says. 

They’re holding hands, and his mom is crying. 

“He taught you to read music before you could read words,” Arthur’s mom says. “He was always so proud of that.” 

“Yeah,” says Arthur. It’s a factoid he’s never mentioned in interviews, and likely never will.

“He loved you so much.”

“I know,” says Arthur. He does. 

He would have stayed beside the cross longer, except D.C. in July is unbearably hot and he still has to do a show tonight and…

It’s hard. 

When they meet the others at the venue, Arthur disappears with Eames into his dressing room. 

“I just need you to hold me, and not talk, for a minute,” says Arthur, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Of course, love,” says Eames, and they do just that. 


	15. Chapter 15

It’s mid-August in New York City when they do the interview with _Out_. Mal flies out from L.A. to supervise. To Arthur’s surprise, she doesn’t come alone: her boss, Saito, is there as well. When he was signed, Arthur was told that he would never meet Saito, even if Saito were pulling strings on his behalf. That’s how Saito operates: as ruthless as Azoff but half as visible. Arthur’s not sure if he should find Saito’s presence at the interview comforting or intimidating. Maybe both. 

“To reiterate,” Arthur says, once they’ve all sat down. “There is _nothing_ until it drops, which isn’t until after the final show. No hints, no hints of hints.” 

The interviewer nods. “Absolutely. We’re all very pleased—honored—to be part of this, and we want both of you to be happy with the final product.” 

“Which we will view and approve before it goes to print,” Saito says.

“Yes, of course,” says the interviewer. He turns to Arthur and Eames. “Shall we begin?” 

  


“We did it, we’re doing it,” Arthur whispers to Eames that night. 

“Happy?”

“Very.” 

“Anything I can do to make you _more_ happy?” 

“We-just-gave-an-incredible-interview-and-the-pictures-are-equally-amazing sex?” Arthur suggests. 

  


**@anotherarthur** : Thank you #VMA!!! Can’t believe I got to take this home tonight #MerryChase pic.twitter 

**@joannared** : Does anybody else feel like a proud mom tonight? OUR BOY WON BEST POP VIDEO #MerryChase #VMA

**@ariadneisamaze** : @joannared: ME! (And his actual mom, of course) #MerryChase 

**@lynnrow** : HE WON HE WON HE WON! Time to drool over #MerryChase all over again 

  


Ariadne heads back to NYU, but she still sends Arthur a daily fandom summary. Arthur doesn’t know what he’s going to do when she gets a proper job and can’t check in on tumblr periodically throughout the day. 

  


**@eamesss** : In case you thought HTGAWM didn’t have enough Brits, I’m happy to announce yours truly will be dropping by for 3 episodes this season

**@ariadneisamaze** : @eamesss you have access to the food table… should I be worried for @anotherarthur’s safety? 

**@eamesss** : @ariadneisamaze Never. 

**@sillycyrus** : OMG HTGAWM JUST RELEASED A PREVIEW OF @eamesss’s FIRST EPISODE 

**@sillycyrus** : I didn’t realize that was a thing I needed but YES #HTGAWM

**@goldinreno** : We only have 30 sec but @eamesss in #HTGAWM is so good??? I didn’t know he could act! 

**@lizziebee** : For everybody just now getting on the @eamesss train, check out this clip of him in Midsummer Night’s Dream in 2012 [video]

  


Ever since the _Out_ interview, Arthur keeps waiting to slip up on stage. Really, undeniably slip up that is, not the kind of minor stuff that will make its way into a tumblr gifset by morning. 

At this point, it feels inevitable: he’s accepted it and already absolved himself of it, even as he remembers his resolution to “do better next time.” 

He loves Eames (even though he hasn’t told him yet). He loves Eames and they spend a fair amount of their time holding hands and kissing (and other unspeakable acts) and generally touching each other in non-platonic ways. Arthur is so used to being able to reach out for Eames, and his instincts don’t care whether he’s on stage or tucked away in their hotel room. 

Somehow, he doesn’t out them. Tampa, Miami, Atlanta. Columbus, Indianapolis, Chicago. No slip-ups. 

They’re going to finish tour at the end of September. The _Out_ issue is going to drop, and Arthur and Eames are going to disappear. 

Their vanishing act is the main concession Arthur was able to get out of Mal. No public appearances, no pap walks, maybe even through New Year’s. Then Arthur will start working on his new album and they’ll pap him coming out of the studio, and Eames will be his Grammy date, and they’ll become just like any other (famous-ish) couple. 

Arthur’s going to make it. They’re going to make it. 

Before Arthur knows it, they’re in the pre-show huddle for the final show, and he’s two hours away from being in the clear. 

  


“Hello, Minneapolis! How are you doing tonight?” Arthur asks. He’s pretty good at pausing for the appropriate amount of time now, to leave space for screaming. “I can’t believe it’s the final show already. Can you believe it? ‘Within A Dream’ came out a little less than a year ago and, wow. It’s been amazing. This whole year, the last two years, have been so amazing, and that’s all thanks to you.” (Cheers.) “All right. Let’s do this!” 

For the first, oh, minute, Arthur tries to pretend like he’s not going to get nostalgic during his song intros, but, yeah, he’s going to get nostalgic. This was his first solo tour. And this is his last show. He flew his mom and Ariadne out for it, and if he can’t be sappy now, then when? 

Arthur doesn’t plan on outing them. He doesn’t. 

He doesn’t plan on making a big romantic gesture, a big, dramatic, fifth-act, airplane-is-about-to-take-off gesture. 

It’s just. 

He’s singing the last line of ‘Merry Chase’ and the crowd is singing along with him—for the last time—and Eames is there, helping him down from the platform, right on cue—for the last time—and Arthur lets the last note fade and rests a hand on Eames’s chest, exactly what the choreography calls for, and he thinks… _Yes_. 

He lets his palm linger, and Eames meets his eyes. 

_Yes_ , Eames’s eyes say. 

So Arthur brings his other hand to Eames’s cheek and pulls him in for a quick, fierce kiss. 

Just like that. 

In the somewhere that somehow exists outside of the two of them, thousands of people are shrieking. (Not like, _there’s a fire_ shrieking. Happy, my-ship-is-canon shrieking. Arthur hopes, anyway.) 

He grins and pushes Eames away. Eames winks and slips back with the other dancers, only a few beats behind. 

It’s done.

It’s done, and it was so, so simple. 

“Do you ever,” Arthur begins. He can hardly speak for smiling. The crowd is still screaming; he tries again. “Do you ever have those moments where you look at your partner and just think, ‘you are amazing and I am so lucky to be with you and I really want to kiss you, right now?’”

The crowd, which had quieted a bit, screams again. 

“I just had one of those moments. Luckily my boyfriend—” impossibly, an even louder wave of screaming crashes over him “—likes to indulge me like that. Not to put too fine a point on it, but if you’ve been checking the set list from the other concerts, you know what’s next. This is ‘Elephant in the Room.’”

Arthur winks at the crowd and laughs. 

  


As soon as the encore is over and they’re all safely backstage for good, Arthur tugs Eames into a tight hug.

“Thank you,” he whispers, tipping his forehead against Eames’s. 

Eames laughs softly. “For letting my super hot, famous boyfriend kiss me in front of thousands of adoring fans?” 

“Yeah,” says Arthur. “And for waiting.” 

Eames opens his mouth to object, but Arthur kisses him instead. They’ve already had this conversation, and it’s kind of a moot point now. 

Ariadne shoves his phone at him. There’s a draft tweet open. 

**@anotherarthur** :#boyfriends @eamesss pic.twitter

Ariadne clearly took the picture seconds before, when Eames was laughing fondly and Arthur was looking—well, Arthur was looking starstruck and besotted. Which, accurate. 

Arthur passes the phone to Eames. 

“I’m in,” Eames says.

Arthur hands the phone back to Ariadne. “Post it,” he says. 

“Aye, aye, captain.” 

  


They don’t crash Twitter, and Ariadne is kind of disappointed, except Arthur would rather be able to read people’s (mostly happy) reactions than not. 

  


**@shamrox:** SLDFJLDSK THEY KISSED ARTHUR SAID BOYFRIEND BEST CONCERT EVER #boyfriends

**@badgerfan4ever:** WHY DIDN’T THEY DO THIS LAST NIGHT AT MINE?!?! #boyfriends 

**@summerluv3:** I think they just won hottest couple of the year, no contest. *fans self* #boyfriends

  


Ariadne arranges a hasty phone conference with _Out_ , and the magazine leaks the article. 

  


**@anotherarthur** :Very proud to share this with all of you tonight: link.OUT #boyfriends

**@anotherarthur** : “Eames and I have been happily together since April, and now that we’re ready, we’re excited to share that news with our fans.” link.OUT #boyfriends

**@anotherarthur** : … Does this mean Secret Love Song can no longer be my jam @LittleMix? 

**@LittleMix** : @anotherarthur Maybe what’s needed is a Part 3… Congratulations to you & @eamesss! The girls x 

**@arthurcohennews:** Arthur & Eames on why they kept quiet, the industry’s lingering homophobia, & how they stayed strong together link.OUT #boyfriends

**@dreamingofae** : WE’VE ALWAYS KNOWN THEY WERE SO FUCKING DOMESTIC AND THIS INTERVIEW PROVES IT link.OUT #boyfriends 

**@arthurrreamesss** : We were right we were right we were right #boyfriends

**@dianafiren** : Isn’t dating your backup dancer a little sleezy? Like, out of a really bad b-movie???

**@fandomliiife** : CANON A/E. @ johnlock you’re next tick tock 

**@mariaholds** : To everybody who STILL thinks E is using A (also: wtf no), take 2 minutes to do your research #eamesdefensesquad

**@mariaholds** : Did you see his Calvin Klein shoot from this summer??? He’s a legit model pic.twitter #eamesdefensesquad

**@mariaholds** : He’s been acting in London theater since he was 12. Frankly, he’s the more respected/known one in industry (in the UK anyway) #eamesdefensesquad

**@mariaholds** : A is the new money half, not E. Anyway. They’re super cute together & IRL canon so get over yourselves #eamesdefensesquad

 

They don’t sleep that night. They aren’t ever alone that night, either, what with the usual goodbyes to the tour team, not to mention the mess of the impromptu couple confirmation. 

Around four or five in the morning, Beth wanders into the hotel suite that’s serving as end-of-tour-start-of-public-relationship HQ and asks, “Has anybody seen Dom?” 

“No,” they all say, in chorus.

“Yes,” Dom’s PA cries, holding his phone in the air. “He chartered a plane back to L.A. He just landed.” 

Dead silence. 

Finally, Arthur says, “ _What_?” 

Because there’s still a whole tour team and all their equipment to get back to California. 

“He just said that Mal needed him, and he was turning off his phone, so.” The PA shrugs. 

“Well, fuck,” says Eames. 

Arthur is more than a little annoyed with Dom: this is supposed to be Arthur’s night—Arthur and Eames’s night—and Dom is _stealing_ that. They are supposed to be celebrating the end of a fantastic tour with (mostly) fantastic people, and also coming out publicly as a couple, and now they’ll have to clean up Dom’s messes as well? 

“I’ve got this,” says Ariadne. “We’re on buses to the airport in an hour. You two, make sure you’re all packed. I’ll handle this.” 

“You’re sure?” Arthur asks, although he’s already standing up and reaching for Eames. 

“I’ll help,” says Arthur’s mom. “We’ll get everybody and everything back to L.A. and go from there. You two need a minute alone, I’m sure.”

“You’ve got fifty-eight,” says Ariadne. 

As soon as the door to their room is shut behind them, Arthur is kissing Eames, messy and desperate and so happy and so, so fucking overwhelmed. 

“Hey,” Eames whispers, pulling back after a frantic minute. 

“Hey,” says Arthur.

“You were pretty great out there,” says Eames. His thumbs begin rubbing slow circles on Arthur’s biceps. 

“I love you so much,” Arthur blurts, and freezes. “Sorry, um. Yeah.” 

“I love you, too, darling,” says Eames. “I’m not sorry.” 

Arthur huffs a little laugh of relief. “Okay. Okay. I mean, I meant to tell you. Under different circumstances? Like, later. And not at five a.m. when my tour manager has just fled across the country for unknown reasons.” 

Eames runs his hands down Arthur’s arms, then slips them around Arthur’s waist. “I think you just told me ‘I love you’ a few hours after you told thousands of people I was amazing, so.” 

“Sorry for getting all dramatic,” Arthur tries. 

Eames shakes his head. “Sweetheart, I’m an _actor_. Sometimes, anyway. I love dramatics. You know I love dramatics. Thank you. I mean—you wanted that, right? You did that… not just for me?” He’s frowning now, and Arthur wants to kiss the frown away, but he also knows Eames is looking for words of assurance, not kisses. 

“I wanted that,” Arthur says. “Even though—or not even though, but _because_ we had the article ready, it felt right. I had a stage and… I’m a singer. I like to use the stage to do things I really love. Like kiss you after ‘Merry Chase.’” 

“I always want to kiss you after ‘Merry Chase,’” Eames agrees. 

“I love you,” says Arthur. 

“I love you,” says Eames. “I love you so bloody much. We are going to have really excellent everyone-knows-we’re-shagging sex once we’re back in L.A., all right?” 

“Is that so?” says Arthur. 

“If we do it now, it’ll have to be fast and we’ll have this whole Dom thing hanging over us and that’s not really something I like to think about during sex, plus we’re both knackered and it’ll really be better with a comforter we can trust,” says Eames. 

“I really, really love you,” says Arthur. 

“I know,” says Eames. 

“I knew we shouldn’t have watched _Star Wars_ on the way here,” Arthur grumbles. 

“You love me,” says Eames, but it’s not joking, or teasingly triumphant—it’s soft. Wondering. A little awed.

“I do,” says Arthur. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another round of applause for Castillon02, who did not flinch when I asked if she could beta a fic that was twice as long as my last multi-chapter fic. She has dedicated an enormous amount of time to this project over the past few months (seriously, even once it was "done," proofreading three chapters a week is no minor feat), and I could not be more grateful. 
> 
> In honor of the hours kenopsia spent reassuring me about my process, the title of the bonus track is stolen from something she said to me in March, a few weeks before I started posting, as I was angsting about the first chapter. 
> 
> If you’d like a song that references both business plans and a fandom, released by an American band formed on a reality show that subsequently had issues with its record label, I hereby send you toward ["Now"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CV5UXkrwng4) by Emblem3. No, I had never heard of them before this fic, either. And with that, I’m going to endeavor to forget most of I learned about the music industry and continue pretending I don’t have too many opinions about all of this.

Arthur pays for the in-flight wi-fi for everyone from tour not stuck driving across half the country. They all have at least one wi-fi enabled device out; Ariadne has three. 

‘Elephant in the Room’ is nearly dead-center in the setlist, which means the news broke around 10 CDT: still early enough in the evening for the West Coast, but not so late that the entire East Coast was asleep. By the time their 8 a.m. flight leaves MSP for LAX, any articles that hadn’t been posted the night before are up: Buzzfeed has already featured a Community post about “Arthur & Eames’s Top 25 Cutest Concert Moments” on the homepage; Sugarscape finally gets to run an approved article on a confirmed gay ship involving a British celebrity; _People_ is running the rep statement Arthur approved weeks before. _Out_ ’s links to the online version of the article have a ridiculous number of retweets. 

They’re mid-flight when Perez Hilton has his say. 

  


**EXCLUSIVE: EAMES’S ULTIMATUM**  
Tour manager Dom Cobb reveals the real reason Arthur Cohen went public   
  
_Oh, Arthur. What are you doing?_

_The young singer is at least as famous for his insistence on privacy as he is for his tunes, but that changed suddenly last night when he revealed he was in a relationship with one of his backup dancers via a STEAMY mid-show liplock, followed by a confirmation tweet and a statement from his representative._

_Many have been wondering: why now?_

_The Minneapolis concert was the last show on Arthur’s Within a Dream Tour, so if he had kept it in his pants for another few hours, he and his British boytoy could have continued their affair in peace._

_Instead, their relationship is trending on Twitter._

_Arthur’s tour manager, Dom Cobb, reveals the truth. “Arthur didn’t want to go public at all, ever. It’s Eames who pushed him into doing it. Eames gave Arthur an ultimatum: go public, or it’s over. It’s easy to forget this sometimes, but Arthur is very young, and won_ The Voice _when he was just a teenager. He’s impressionable and considers Eames his first love.”_

_As evidenced by his continued friendship with his childhood gal pal, Arthur is very loyal, almost to a fault. Eames is older and far more experienced in the business. Could he be using Arthur for his fame? At the very least, he’s been inconsiderate of Arthur’s youth and penchant for privacy._

_Arthur’s been overwhelmed by his newfound fame and his demanding tour schedule; no doubt he was desperate to keep the older man committed once tour was over and would easily agree to Eames’s demand—even though Arthur has never publicly confirmed any past relationships and is quick to insist that the press and public “respect his privacy” on a wide range of topics._

_We’ll see if the relationship can withstand the new pressures that come from being scrutinized by the public eye…_

  


Arthur is shaking by the time he reaches the end of the article, but he forces himself to say, “Can they at least decide whether you’re the boytoy or the older, experienced man? If they’re going to publish this shit, they could at least be consistent about it.” 

Beside him, Eames is pale. “Arthur…” 

Arthur closes the laptop. “I am going to _kill_ Dom. And Mal. The instant we land. But Perez Hilton is trash and everyone knows it and that article has _nothing_ to do with us.” 

Eames opens his mouth, shuts it. 

Arthur plows on. “And if that was a ‘steamy’ kiss, I feel bad for whoever wrote that article. We’ve had steamier kisses in front of… literally everyone on the tour team.” 

Eames swallows. “I wouldn’t do that, I would never,” he says. 

Arthur frowns, confused. Somehow, he doesn’t think Eames is talking about the time Yusuf caught them while they were _quite occupied thank you very much_ in Arthur’s dressing room.

“I wouldn’t have made some—fucking ultimatum,” Eames continues, almost choking on the words. “I _know_ how much you value your privacy and I _know_ that the reason we weren’t public had nothing to do with your… evaluation of our relationship, of me. If you hadn’t wanted—”

“But I did want,” Arthur interrupts firmly. He pushes up the armrest and takes both of Eames’s hands into his own. “I wanted this. I thought about it a lot, you know I did. And we talked about it, and we went through all sorts of different options, and this is the one _we_ settled on. Well, not the concert kiss, but—I am so proud of the interview we did, and some idiot with a website can’t take that away. All right?” 

“Yeah,” says Eames. “Yeah, I—no, I know that, it’s just, this stupid article, like I’m fucking manipulating you—”

“It sucks, and it’s _not true_ ,” Arthur says. 

Across the aisle, Ariadne coughs. “Not to interrupt, but, FYI, I’m on it. Dealing with, dealt with it. The decent publications—well, for a given understanding of decent—aren’t even talking about the article, and a respectable percentage of the fandom has taken it as their call to share the _Out_ interview even more. It’s a shitty thing, but it’s a shitty thing that isn’t going to matter long-term, or even next week.” 

“Thank you,” says Eames. 

Beth, in the seat next to Ariadne, leans across her and says, “But you know, if you did want to demonstrate an actually steamy kiss, I’m sure no one here would mind.” 

“Like you haven’t seen enough already,” Yusuf says from the seat in front of Ariadne. 

“I’m just saying,” says Beth. 

“My mom is _right here_ ,” Arthur reminds them all. 

“You do your thing, kiddo,” his mom says. 

  


There are paps when they land, because of course there are. 

“Go,” says Ariadne. “Your mom and I will deal with the luggage. Just get out of here.” 

Yusuf leads them to the waiting car, arms outstretched, pushing paps that get too close out of the way. Conveniently, Dom had forgotten to book tickets for any of their security staff. 

Arthur grasps Eames’s hand tighter and basically does not breathe until the door of the SUV is shut and the paps are left taking their last shots of the back windshield. 

“Excuse me, sir,” says the driver. “I wasn’t given clear instructions on a destination.” 

The hand not holding onto Eames curls into a fist. 

The absolute last place Arthur wants to go after going public is management’s offices, but Arthur is going to settle this, today. He tells the driver the address and turns back to Eames. 

“Have him take you back to the apartment after he drops me off,” he says. “I’ll get another car after.”

“After…” 

“After I eviscerate Mal for authorizing that shitty article, and Dom for agreeing to go along with it,” Arthur says calmly. 

“I can come with you, if you want,” Eames says.

“I need to do this,” says Arthur. “Mal is my manager, she,” he winces, “she doesn’t care about you. You don’t factor into her calculations. Which obviously doesn’t work well, because you factor into _mine_.” 

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” Eames asks. “You haven’t slept, it’s been a crazy… fourteen hours? Sixteen hours?” 

“It has to be now,” says Arthur. “I’m—I’m so angry, Eames. I get that the gossip blogs will write untrue shit. They do it all the time, fine, whatever. But this has Mal’s fingerprints all over it—otherwise the source would have been an anonymous insider, not Dom—and she’s supposed to be on my side. And she hasn’t been, and I’m going to keep letting her not be on my side unless I talk to her now, while I’m still so, so fucking angry.” 

“Okay,” says Eames. “I’m… there’s not a good way to say this that doesn’t make me sound like an obnoxious, fake-mature person, but, I’m proud of you.” 

A different kind of warmth than the burning, twisting rage he’s felt since the article came out passes through him, slows his racing heartbeat. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m proud of us.” 

  


Arthur ignores Mal’s assistant and marches straight into her office. 

“Arthur,” she says. “What an unexpected surprise. I imagined you and Eames would—”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about what you thought Eames and I would do, the day after tour, the day after _Out_ released the interview,” Arthur says, his voice low.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Mal says. She waives a manicured hand at one of the chairs in front of her desk.

Arthur sits. 

“I’m not certain I understand where this… anger is coming from, Arthur,” she says. 

“We had a plan,” says Arthur. “We agreed on a plan, and you muddied the waters with the Perez Hilton article.” 

“I’m only doing what’s best for you,” Mal says. She doesn’t deny that she is behind the article.

Arthur wants to scream, but instead he counts to five and says, “How does positioning me as a naive newcomer help me? How does positioning my boyfriend as manipulative help me?” 

“Because it helps to position you as the innocent, sympathetic one when you break up,” Mal answers, as if speaking to a child. 

“We’re not breaking up,” Arthur says. 

“Well, not this instant, but November is good timing. It means you won’t have to pretend you’re together over the holidays,” says Mal. 

Arthur is no longer certain they are having the same conversation—that they even live in the same reality. “Eames and I will be together for the holidays. Because we’re together. He’s my boyfriend. We’re not breaking up, not now, not in November.” 

“Let us speak frankly,” says Mal. “Eames was a nice choice for a first boyfriend. You’d been single for… almost too long, and it was becoming awkward. Everyone loves a good love story. And your fans loved Eames, and the idea of you and Eames together, and that all worked out very well.” 

“Hang on,” says Arthur. “First of all, if I’d attempted to start a relationship while I was working on the album or on _The Voice_ tour, you would have said the guy was a distraction, never mind the fact that you didn’t want me out.”

“You didn’t want to be out,” Mal says. 

“I at least wanted a plan to come out, with the deadline of my album release,” says Arthur. “You didn’t even want that.” 

Mal doesn’t reply.

“Second,” Arthur continues. “Yes, my fans think we’re good together, or something. Maybe that’s because we are good together. Because we are together.” 

Mal is still regarding him impassively, safe in her aloofness with the desk between them. “As I said, that’s all very nice for a first boyfriend. Very cute, young love. But you should break up. Use the heartbreak as inspiration for your next album, and then we’ll find you someone more suitable, more mature after the release.” 

This time, it’s Arthur who can only stare. What the _fuck_? 

“You need another singer,” Mal says. “Maybe an actor. A model would certainly be acceptable—maybe next year we can have you perform at the Victoria’s Secret show.”

“Eames is an actor. And a model,” says Arthur.

Mal raises an eyebrow. “He’s not what I had in mind for you. Or your career.” 

“He’s my personal life, my private life,” says Arthur. 

“When you’re a singer, the personal is the public,” says Mal. 

“No,” says Arthur. “Not like this. I’m not breaking up with him because he isn’t in the fucking business plan—a business plan that you’re springing on me _now_.” 

“I’m just looking out for you,” says Mal. “That’s my job.” 

Arthur stands up. “No, you’re not looking out for me. Not really.” 

Arthur leaves the office, walks past Mal’s assistant, past the cubicles of interns and associates. When he reaches the elevator, he presses the ‘up’ button. 

Arthur does, in fact, wait for Saito’s assistant to wave him through, although fortunately for all, this happens almost immediately. 

Saito has stood to greet him, his hand outstretched, perfectly serene, as if Arthur has not (nearly) barged his way into his office. “Arthur. Congratulations on your tour.” 

“Thank you,” says Arthur, shaking the proffered hand. 

“Please, let us sit,” says Saito, indicating the conference table on the east side of the office. 

Saito is notoriously difficult to read, and Arthur feels the first twinges of doubt curl in his stomach as he takes in the neutral expression on Saito’s face. Maybe he should have come in with a better plan. Maybe he should have tried harder to negotiate with Mal… Suddenly, despite the fact that _he_ is the one who initiated the impromptu meeting, he feels a little bit like he’s been called to the principal’s office. (He was never, of course, actually called to the principal’s office, but he imagines this is what it must feel like.) He prepares to protest his innocence. 

“I have been most impressed with you,” Saito continues. 

“Thank you,” says Arthur. 

Saito pours them each a glass of water and pushes Arthur’s toward him. Arthur nods his thanks and wonders if he should have brought backup. A witness.

“Now,” says Saito. “How may I be of service?” 

Arthur doesn’t know where to start. “Did you happen to see the Perez Hilton article?” 

Saito nods gravely. “I did.” 

“And what did you think?” Arthur asks. 

“What did _you_ think?” Saito counters. 

“It’s not what I wanted, and it’s not what Mal and I agreed on. I don’t think it helps my public image in the way she says it does, or will,” says Arthur. He bites his lip. God, he feels like such a little kid right now. Like the neighbor kids he babysat sometimes, who would call their parents when they didn’t like one of Arthur’s decisions. “Can you… intervene?” 

Saito folds his hands together. “I rather thought I would take on your management directly myself.”

At Arthur’s stunned expression, Saito adds, “It seemed simpler.” 

After a beat, Arthur manages, “I have…conditions.” Because he _does_ , even though Saito has significantly more negotiating power than even Mal had. 

“Of course,” says Saito. 

“Eames,” says Arthur. “My boyfriend. We’re together, for real. You can’t make us break up. I’ll agree to a set number of public dates, or pap shots on our way out, per a specified time period, but no break-up rumors, no cheating rumors, no engagement rumors. If other people run those stories because that’s what they do, fine, but nothing fed to them by you. And we, the two of us, PR, whoever, meet on this plan regularly, and we all have to mutually agree on it. And I’m warned before I’m going to get papped. No more surprises, and no pap walks without security.” 

“That all seems very reasonable,” says Saito. 

“So we’re in agreement?” says Arthur. 

“I want your numbers to be better for the second album, but I’ll help you get them,” says Saito. “Yes, we’re in agreement. You’re too bright a star to waste upon Mallorie.” 

Arthur nods. “And I should expect this in writing… when?” 

For the first time, a smile—sharp, shark-like as it is—stretches across Saito’s face. “Your reputation does not do you justice,” he says. “Expect a draft in writing at the end of the week. We can meet after the weekend to further discuss the fine points.”

“Dom,” Arthur blurts. He can’t believe he almost forgot. “No Dom, next tour.” 

Saito coughs delicately. “You are aware, of course, that a tour manager’s job is to keep their charge out of trouble, not to drag them into it. Following Mallorie’s plan in such a public way does not reflect well upon Mr. Cobb… I would be very surprised if he managed to land another reputable American act any time soon.” 

“And if he does, it won’t be me,” Arthur confirms.

“It will most certainly not be you,” says Saito. “In the meantime… don’t you have someone waiting for you at home?” 

Arthur tries not to blush and fails horribly. 

“It was a pleasure, Arthur,” Saito says, rising and again extending his hand. 

“I look forward to working with you,” says Arthur, and means it. 

“Have a lovely rest of your week,” says Saito. “Tell your boyfriend ‘hello,’ won’t you?” 

“Yes,” says Arthur, dazed. “Thank you.” 

  


“The fuck,” says Eames, after Arthur has fought early rush hour traffic back to the apartment. “Saito referenced me?”

“I think he’s aware that we’re dating,” says Arthur dryly. 

“And Saito’s going to manage you directly?” 

“Seems that way.” 

Eames whistles. “Ariadne emailed, you know. The fandom’s still in chaos. The antis don’t know what to do with themselves, except maybe keep giving the Perez fucking Hilton article hits, and the shippers are swooning over the new _Out_ pictures.” 

Arthur shrugs. “Let them chaos.”

“Is ‘chaos’ a verb, darling?” 

“The fandom would let me. They’ve got a whole dialect full of non-verb verbs,” says Arthur. 

“And what have you got?”

“You,” says Arthur. 

  


About a week into the break, Arthur declares a breakfast-for-dinner night, and Eames humors him, because Eames is pretty good about doing that. 

Once they’re settled in with eggs and toast and fresh fruit—some of it from the farmers’ market, mind—Arthur says, “We probably should have talked about this ages ago, but… are you staying in L.A.?” 

With Eames’s lease up at the end of the month, most of Eames’s things are already in Arthur’s apartment, but Arthur doesn’t want to presume that Eames means this to be a permanent arrangement. Also, Arthur needs to find a new apartment—one with a guest bedroom for their friends—and he’d like to know how much input Eames will want to have in the selection of the new place. 

Eames sets his fork down. “I was planning on it. If that’s all right with you.” 

“Of course it’s all right with me,” says Arthur. “I just didn’t know—what with Elizabeth—anyway, I was going to see how much of the album I could get done in London.” 

“Elizabeth’s all right,” says Eames, but he reaches across the table for Arthur’s hand, bringing to his lips and kissing it. “Maybe the UK for Christmas, though? After Hanukkah? I don’t know what you and your mum usually do.” 

“That sounds perfect,” says Arthur. He picks up his toast, nibbles at it. 

“Good,” says Eames. “Because… I’ve got a job here, starting in January.” 

“What?” Arthur is grinning already; he doesn’t even know what the job is, but Eames is ducking his head and blushing so Arthur knows it must be good news. 

“With Marie. She wants me to help her choreograph a summer tour or two, so that’ll keep me busy all winter while you’re in the studio,” says Eames. 

“Oh my god, Eames,” says Arthur. “That’s amazing. That’s so, so fantastic. You’re going to be so good at that. I’m already jealous.” 

“No need for that,” says Eames. “Promise I’ll keep my shirt on.” 

Arthur laughs. “Whatever you need.” 

  


The new apartment is nicer and bigger, and Eames insists on hanging up their motley collection of prints and posters even before they finish arranging the kitchen. (“Sci-fi over spoon placement, darling.”)

They’re half watching _The Voice_ and half discussing _Doctor Strange_ when Eames clears his throat and says, “You know how I was doing a bunch of auditions in London?”

Arthur knew that Eames was doing _some_ auditions in London, but apparently Eames had passed off even more auditions as ‘meetings with his agent’ and ‘lunches with his mates’ than he had realized. “Yeah?”

“Well, this one—it was a big one, and there were some complications with the contract, which is why I didn’t mention it, but—BBC wants me. For a miniseries.” 

“Eames!” Arthur gasps. “That’s wonderful, that’s so, so, amazing, why were you _keeping_ this from me?” 

“Just signed the final today, while you were with your mum,” says Eames. “I wanted to be sure.” 

“I mean, congratulations, of course, but—you know you can talk to me about the things you’re unsure about, right? Like, the stuff you’re not sure you’re going to get? I’m not here just for the success.” After the Netflix disappointment, Arthur wants to make sure this is still clear. 

“I know,” says Eames. “I wanted to surprise you with this, though, if I could. So… think you could end up in the UK occasionally between April and June?” 

Arthur’s album is scheduled for another October release date; the first single will drop in July or August, the second in September. 

“I probably won’t be able to be there full time,” Arthur admits. “But definitely. Absolutely.” 

“We can also perfect our Skype-sex technique,” says Eames seriously. “We haven’t explored this area at all, love.”

“Only because we’ve explored hotel sex to its utmost,” says Arthur.

“Utmost?” Eames questions. “Pet, there’s always room for improvement.” 

“Excuse you?” says Arthur.

“In the _hotels_.” Eames winks. 

“I’ll see if I can negotiate for a bigger room next tour,” says Arthur. “Oh. Um. You don’t have to, obviously, but… keep the year after this one open, if you want? Saito hasn’t said anything, of course—the album’s not even officially started—but, well. Backup dancers worked out pretty well the first time.” 

“Darling,” says Eames. “That’s the dream.” 

“Punning on my album title is Ariadne’s job.” 

“Boyfriend privileges, love,” says Eames. 

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Consider it done. Welcome back, Mr. Eames—but just for this next one, all right?” 

“What? You already know your third album isn’t going to be backup-dancer music?” 

“No, not that,” says Arthur, “but I can’t keep hoarding you.” 

“What if I want to be hoarded?” says Eames. 

“It’s not fair to you. Or to all the people who would love to cast you,” Arthur insists. 

“But if you’re on tour and I’m not on tour with you, we’ll never see each other,” Eames complains.

“We’ll figure it out,” Arthur says. “But I think that by the time I’m on my third tour, you’re going to be busy playing the lead in all sorts of non-tragically queer productions, and I want you to take those.”

“Only if you come to the premieres with me, as long as you don’t have a concert,” says Eames after a moment. 

“Done,” says Arthur. 

“And when can I get that in writing?” Eames teases. 

  


_Entertainment News: Arthur Cohen wins ‘New Artist of the Year’ at the American Music Awards._

_Entertainment News: Arthur Cohen wins ‘Best New Artist’ at the 2017 Grammy Awards._

_Gawker: Arthur Cohen visits dreamy British boyfriend Eames on set. See the pics!_

_GQ: Arthur Cohen talks fame, fashion, and his upcoming album in our latest issue_

  


Three weeks before ‘Projection’ drops, the track list leaks—on purpose, of course. 

  


all-about-the-music: 

All right all right, let’s do this people! Track list below: 

Not Alone

Leap of Faith 

Nothing Quite Like it 

Go to Sleep 

Consider Me Impressed

More Than a Little 

Tourist 

Lost in Limbo 

Simplest Version

Show Me 

Still Looking

Half-Remembered 

Paisley Love

Hallway Montage 

Streetlights On All Day* [bonus song on deluxe album only]

******

(Pause for screaming. 21 MORE DAYS.) 

Soo… anybody else think we’re getting 15 A/E songs? 

Okay, okay, in all seriousness: Some of these have the POSSIBILITY to be about more general things – fame, touring, music, etc. (I know all you Ariadne fans are hoping for another bestie ode.) Half-Remembered honestly could be about his dad, in which case, PLEASE HAND ME ALL THE TISSUES. But I really think we’re going to get a love-heavy album. Think about the singles we got: Leap of Faith and Not Alone are A/E songs hands-down—and if you don’t believe me, withinarthursdream did a line-by-line breakdown here. 

#the music #Arthur Cohen #ProjectionAlbum #promo #projection track list 

  


_Rolling Stone: Arthur Cohen’s ‘Projection’ is a triumph, sizzling and soulful in turn_

  


On the Monday of the second week of January, Arthur walks into the lobby of one of management’s many buildings. Eames, Marie, and rest of the technical leads are going to talk them through the show’s narrative. Arthur is familiar with it already, of course—he helped develop the concept this time around—but it’s the first time the other dancers and musicians will all be in a room together. 

Eames is supposed to meet him here after a morning interview. The BBC miniseries kicked off the week before, and the reviews are impressive. Arthur, on the other hand, spent the morning compiling “reasons why we love Ariadne” posts from tumblr in order to convince her to come with him on tour again. She can hold off on taking an architecture job for six months after graduation, can’t she? It’s not like she wouldn’t be gainfully employed. 

“Are you lost, love?” Eames asks, sidling up from behind. “Or just day-dreaming? And in tasteless management lobbies, too, pssh. I thought I’d cured you of that habit.” 

“Worked out well enough for me the first time,” says Arthur. He presses the elevator call button. The doors open and they step inside.

“Is that so?” Eames asks, watching as Arthur presses the button for the sixth floor. 

“Ended up with a dreamy boyfriend, didn’t I?” Arthur says, smirking. 

“I’ll show you dreaming,” says Eames, waggling his eyebrows. He crowds Arthur a bit, kisses him. 

The elevator doors open… and close… while they kiss. Arthur fumbles for the ‘doors open’ button. 

“We’re going to be late,” says Arthur, tugging Eames out of the elevator. “Also, I think you have an elevator fetish.” 

“We still haven’t gotten to have sex in one,” Eames complains. 

“And we’re definitely not having our first time in _management’s_ elevator. What kind of boy do you think I am?” Arthur asks. 

“The kind who doesn’t mind doing it not on a bed, but if there is to be a bed involved, prefers a trustworthy comforter,” says Eames. 

“Damn straight,” says Arthur.

“Mmm, not straight in the least,” says Eames. 

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Very true. C’mon, we’re late.”

“Saito will wait for you,” says Eames. 

“Maybe,” says Arthur. “But I suppose he really does have to wait for you. It’s at least a fifth your meeting, after all.” 

“Your tour, though... Are you worried at all, about the dancing?” asks Eames, which seems like an absurd thing to ask now, after it’s all been choreographed. 

“No,” says Arthur. “You’ve got me.”

“I do,” says Eames, pushing open the door. 

  


Arthur is nearly twenty-two. He’s a Grammy-award winning artist about to embark on an international tour featuring his critically acclaimed and commercially successful sophomore album. The whole damn world may or may not be his for the taking, but with Eames, nothing is impossible.


End file.
